The Rival North
by AbbyGreenEyes
Summary: It's 1963 at the height of the Cold War. Matthew and Alfred have been in a secret relationship for a few decades. When Ivan kidnaps his lover it falls to Matthew to infiltrate enemy territory and rescue Alfred. Full summary inside.
1. Something Borrowed

**A/N: Hello everyone! I'm AbbyGreenEyes and this is my second Hetalia Fanfiction. It's much darker and more serious than my first fic Kryptonite which is mainly humor and fluff so for any of my regular reviewers from there I understand if it's not your kind of story! I know i'm posting this a bit early since Kryptonite isn't technically over yet but it's so close I thought it'd be safe to start putting this up. **

**Title: The Rival North**

**Full Summary: The story begins in late June of 1963. Canada & America have been conducting a secret relationship for decades. The Cuban missile crisis has recently been resolved in October of 1962 and the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty is being discussed and will be ratified in September in spite of these moments of cooperation Cold War tensions are still running high between the Soviet Union and the United States and it's allies. When Russia, working without his government's knowledge, kidnaps America in an attempt to manipulate politics through personal coercion it will be up to his allies and particularly his brother to see him through. **

**Themes of action, espionage, magic, twin ESP, tragedy, and romance. **

**Both human and country names used.**

**General warnings: violence, explicit sex (consensual), drug use (recreational and otherwise), sensitive material.**

**Specific Trigger Warning for Rape. There will be no graphic depictions of the rape itself (no lemons) but it is a part of the plot and their will be references to it later in the story. So please proceed with caution. **

**A note on Russia's characterization: this is a Cold War story and essentially and Action/Espionage fic at it's core and as such it deals with themes of violence, kidnapping, and the lot. However, I do want Russia (or as he is here, The RSFSR and head of the Soviet Union) to be a reasonable antagonist. **

**If you think he is slipping into RapeTruck!Russia territory please let me know. **

**ConCrit in general is not only welcomed but loved because that's how I improve as a writer. **

**Thank you for sitting through that giant note! Here's chapter one!**

…**...**

**Chapter one: Something Borrowed**

June 28th , 1963, 6:30pm, New York City

Matthew straightened the strap of his overnight bag and reached for the doorknob. Predictably, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around his waist in protest and a head of golden hair buried itself against his neck.

"Why do you have to go?" Alfred complained. "It's almost our birthdays. Just skip work! You deserve it!"

"Al," Matt smiled and turned around into his brother's embrace. "You know I can't do that."

"_Come on_," Al grinned and lowered his voice "I'll make it worth your while."

Matthew blushed and pushed back against Alfred's chest even though he knew from experience it wouldn't do him any good. "Geez you're impossible. You're going to see me in a couple days for Canada Day. Can't you wait that long?"

"Baby you know I can't. I missed you while I was in Berlin."

The year was 1963, at the height of the cold war, and Alfred had just returned from West Berlin where he had been with his boss delivering their support to those resisting the soviet bloc.

Matthew had taken away from work just long enough to meet Alfred and spend a few days together on his return from Europe but things were too stressful at home for him to stay long. There had been bombings by the Quebec Liberation Front in April, the perpetrators of the attack having only just been sentenced at the beginning of the month. Matthew was needed at home but Alfred had promised he would make it to Canada Day this year.

The high demands that were placed on them as countries and the secrecy their relationship required made it difficult for the lovers to be together, even being so close geographically, but they made time when and where they could.

"Work has to come first, love." Matthew reminded him. "What would your people think if they knew you were wasting time giving me puppy dog eyes when you should be reading your briefings?"

Alfred sighed and released his northern brother. "I know I just wish you could stay one more night."

Matthew leaned in and caught Alfred's lips in a kiss. "I do too but I have a plane to catch."

Alfred walked Matthew down the stairs of his apartment building and saw him safely to the taxi waiting take him to the airport.

Neither of the two blonds was aware that while they exchanged a chaste fraternal hug of goodbye they were being watched.

Across the street, seven stories up, in an old apartment building that was being refurbished to be a new hotel , there stood a man whose violet eyes never wavered from the scene before him.

The tall Russian's heart beat a rapid rhythm within his chest while he stood calm, cool, and composed.

He had tracked the American from Berlin. He had planned to take him there. It would've been so much easier to snatch him across the border and into the lands that he controlled.

Alas, his young adversary had unwittingly evaded him. America's gregarious nature made him a difficult target. He was always in search of people, of talk, and well lit rooms. He never stayed long in the shadows or the silence.

Russia, Ivan, knew this was because he couldn't stand to be alone.

Ivan had made the dangerous journey into enemy territory under the presumption that Alfred would take a day of rest after his travels in Berlin. He could find him at his home and catch him when he gave in to his fatigue.

He had not expected that Canada would already be there waiting with open arms for his American lover.

Oh yes,_ that_ had certainly been an interesting discovery but it was of little consequence to Ivan.

Ivan knew that Alfred was a heavy sleeper but he was well guarded when traveled with his government to foreign lands. Especially now, Ivan indulged in a small private smile, when they knew he was under threat.

At his home he was alone presumably no one but those he trusted should be able to find him there. Obviously he was not as secure as he thought he was.

Canada, being cautious and alert, less sure of himself, was a light sleeper. At the slightest sound from Russia entering the apartment he would've been awake.

Ivan was confident in his ability to neutralize any threat the Canadian posed but he knew that hubris paved the way to defeat. Ivan would be patient. He would wait until Matthew left that way there would be no chance that he might escape and raise the alarm.

Ivan was vulnerable here alone on American soil. Not even his own government knew that he was here and on what errand he had come for his motherland. The success of his entire endeavor relied on stealth and expediency.

He would get in, get him, and get out. He would be gone before the Americans had a chance to rouse themselves and realize what he had taken from them taken and hidden where it could not be retrieved.

He was Russia, standing nearly eternal on the shores of time, pagan roots stretching back before the dawn of Christ, independent and indomitable.

No country so young and so untested, however strong, however powerful, could defy him.

America was strong but he had not yet proven his endurance.

Left to the rule of his own will Ivan imagined he would rise and fall like so many great nations and empires that Russia had seen in his time; That was of no import to Ivan, however, as he did not intend to allow Alfred Jones the privilege of watching his glory grow and fade as guided by his own hand.

No, Ivan intended to guide his hand for him.

He would consume Alfred's strength, his youth, and his bounty and he would control them.

He intended to reach out one large hand and snatch him into the fold of his family where he would be a jewel within his house and one who would pave the way for others to come.

Ivan had seen the feats they had both accomplished when spurred by their competition.

Now he would see what feats America's spirit and America's resources could accomplish to lend glory to the Soviet Union.

If he would not acknowledge communism for the good of his people, he would be made to acknowledge it under Russia's rule.

He watched Alfred turn and re-enter his apartment building. The American had stood for a long time on the street watching until the taxi carrying his brother had disappeared over the horizon.

Ivan slunk away from the window letting the stained curtain fall from his grasp.

He would act tonight.

Russia slumped against the wall of the dark, dusty room and fingered his scarf. The heat in June was sweltering even here in New York one of the northern most points of the United States.

He missed the cool summer air of Moscow.

The longing for home turned his thoughts farther inward. His government did not need to know what he was here doing. He would tell them in time when he was certain of his success. He did not need to be told what was best for Russia by any one of the power hungry puppets he had called his boss over the years. Ivan had been there since the beginning, Ivan was Russia, he knew what was best for Russia.

For centuries he had watched his people both struggle and thrive, carving out a life from the beautiful and often harsh land he called his own. His people knew how to survive. They had the beet and their red wheat but still famines were far too common. He had resources from Ukraine and Georgia and many of the others who now united under the red flag but if he could bring America under that same banner he would never have to worry over such things again.

Vast fields of wheat, pasture for grazing cattle, fertile soil for orchards along the coasts, all these things would be his.

He had not even begun to think of his personal needs. The needs he had as Ivan and not as Russia. His need for somewhere warm, somewhere bright, and his insatiable thirst for companionship. His house was full but it was not enough, it was never enough.

…

Back in his apartment Alfred finished cleaning the dishes he and Matthew had used for an early dinner before Matthew had left to catch his plane. The sun was just setting and Alfred wished Matthew could've taken a morning flight. He knew his Canadian had put off leaving as long as he could, he knew he had work in the morning and needed to get home tonight, but Alfred was still filled with loneliness when faced with his all too quiet apartment.

He retrieved a bottle of coke from his fridge, put on a vinyl record (He wouldn't tell Arthur but he was very into some of the new bands coming out of England right now) and flipped through the newest release from Marvel Comic's _Tales of Suspense_. He knew he was just killing time and avoiding thinking about all the things he would face at work tomorrow.

He stayed up for a few more hours, watching the evening news and a few variety shows on the TV before finally accepting that he had to go to bed alone tonight.

He showered, folded up his clothes and slipped into a fresh pair of boxers. It was really too hot to sleep in anything else. He'd come up to New York in hopes of avoiding the D.C heat but they'd gotten up to a record high today and it lingered into the night.

He threw the blanket off his bed onto the floor and cracked his bedroom window. He curled up under his thin sheet and hugged the pillow Matthew had used the night before close to him. He could still smell traces of him on it and when he closed his eyes it helped him to pretend Matthew was still laying there next to him.

...

All along Ivan had waited patiently as the hours of the night slipped away. Finally he judged it late enough that Alfred would've had time to fall into a deep sleep.

He had staked out the apartment building and knew that there was a night watchman who guarded the entry way after sundown. He'd determined the easiest way to gain access would be by climbing the fire escape. Alfred only lived on his building's fourth floor so it wouldn't take Ivan long to climb which would significantly reduce his chances of being spotted. He knew that Alfred's apartment had a balcony around the back foolishly built close enough to the fire escape that a tall enough man with long enough legs could easily cross from one to the other, from there it was only a matter of popping the lock on Alfred's door.

He checked the pockets of his coat. In the right he felt the all important vile of liquid wrapped up in his handkerchief. In the left he felt the tools he would use to silently unlock the door. He'd carefully wrapped them tightly in a second handkerchief to ensure they wouldn't rattle and alert anyone who might be listening. Next to the tools was a small but strong tightly would rope and a scrap of dirty fabric he'd torn from the curtains of the building he had been squatting in.

He smiled his small smile and tucked his scarf safely away in his jacket where it couldn't become tangled and inhibit his movement or be used against him if, as he certainly would, Alfred put up much of a fight.

Ivan was looking forward to it. The struggle would make his inevitable conquest all the sweeter.

He slipped through the shadows and followed the back alleys until he found himself behind Alfred's apartment building. With surprising grace for a man his size he silently mounted the fire escape.

He could do nothing for the soft gentle thud of his leather boots against the wrought iron stairway.

Slowly he counted the steps up to the fourth floor. There was no time for anxiety, no time for fear, this was the time for action. Those were all emotions meant for prey the only thing reserved for a hunter was to be cool and calculating.

He stopped at the fourth floor, pressed himself against the brick wall and peeked around slowly into Alfred's bedroom window to see if he could make out whether or not Alfred was inside and fast asleep. That was when Ivan noticed the lower half of the window had been pushed open. The curtains fluttered softly in the breeze.

_'Oh Amerika,' _He thought splitting into a grin_ 'You are still so naïve.' _

No matter. Ivan would soon teach him the value of vigilance.

It would be a tight fit with his broad shoulders but it would be quicker and quieter than making the leap to the back terrace.

He slipped one shoulder in a time, entering at an angle, and in an instant he was standing there in Alfred's dark bedroom, a silhouette against the white curtains, illuminated for a moment by the lights of the city and then he moved to the side and was suddenly indistinguishable from shadow.

He felt his breath hitch and his pulse race not from fear but excitement.

He was so close. Alfred was laying before him with white sheets curled messily around his body. He slept on his side with his back turned to Ivan. A quick survey of the room showed Ivan the gun that was left on Alfred's nightstand.

He crept forward, his eyes never leaving Alfred's back and the nest of golden hair resting on his pillow.

He took the gun and slipped it casually into his inner coat pocket.

He paused for a moment and then reached his hand out for the pair of recognizable square framed glasses. He slipped them carefully into another of his coat's many pockets.

Finally, it was time.

He pulled the bottle of chloroform from his pocket and doused the handkerchief, then he crept ever so gently into bed behind Alfred.

He noticed the small opening between Alfred's neck and his pillow. He would have to act quickly and hope that Alfred was as deep a sleeper as he expected.

He pushed his arm underneath Alfred's head.

The blond stirred and groggily asked "Mattie?"

"Nyet." Ivan whispered "I am not your little Matvey."

Then it was the instant to act the moment America stiffened and began "Rus-!"

was the minute the arm Ivan had curled underneath him snapped around his throat and began to crush his windpipe leaving America gasping for air. The blond was pulled fast against Ivan's chest, his legs thrashed about, hands reaching in vain for a gun on the nightstand that he wouldn't find. Realizing his gun was missing he jabbed his elbow as sharply against the ribs of the man holding him as possible, but Russia's unseasonably thick coat protected him. Finally Ivan began to release him, to allow him to breath only to intercept those first, beautiful, deep, cleansing breaths with the chemical soaked rag.

America knew what was happening to him the minute he felt the cloth touch his face but he couldn't stop himself. His lungs were burning with need for air thanks to Russia's choke-hold.

He breathed in and his world went black.

When Alfred's body went limp Ivan pulled away and pocketed the rag. He considered briefly leaving it for Canada to find when the other nation inevitably came looking for his lover. As fun as it would've been to torment him with the knowledge of exactly _how_ he had taken America Ivan listened to his reason and decided it was best not to leave a trace at all.

"My Amerika," Ivan cooed against Alfred's neck. "I like you so much better this way."

He took a moment to run his hands over Alfred's unconscious body before pulling the American's arms behind him and securing them with the rope.

Of course, with his strength Alfred could tear right through them but Ivan had a plan for that.

He tied his arms behind his back and his legs together. Next he pulled the dirty strip of cloth from his pocket. He shoved two fingers in Alfred's mouth prying it gently apart and fitting him for a tight gag.

The next part of Ivan's plan required speed and courage. All he had to do now was to get Alfred down the fire escape and across the street to the car he had parked in the alley there.

The car had been procured for him by trustworthy contacts in the U.S who knew better than to ask questions. It wasn't stolen and Ivan had no fear of it being reported. Once he had Alfred in the car and they were on the open road it would take just a little more than a day of straight driving until he reached the southernmost point of Florida where he had arranged for a boat to meet him and carry him and his cargo to Cuba where a plane would be waiting to take them home to Russia.

Cuba had owed him a favor and even if he hadn't he would've been only too happy to oblige.

Ivan knew the drive would be tiring but he could rest once they had safely left American soil.

He would be among comrades then and Alfred's chances of escape would be severely reduced.

_'Even if he did find a way around the poison.' _Ivan smiled as he stood up, carrying Alfred bridal style with him. _'Which he won't.'_

The streets were completely quiet and no-one noticed the large, pale-haired man cross the street with the limp body in his arms.

Soon Ivan was sliding Alfred to the side to support him in one strong arm as he popped the trunk of the inconspicuous black car.

Let it not be said that he wasn't thoughtful, Ivan mused, he had made certain his contacts sent a vehicle with a spacious trunk.

Ivan lay Alfred carefully inside the trunk turning him so his back was facing the door and his inner forearms were exposed.

Ivan stepped away momentarily to retrieve a special package from the glove box. From this package he produced a syringe full of carefully dosed Coniine, one of many such syringes contained there in, and produced from Hemlock enough to paralyze but not to kill.

Well, perhaps enough to kill a human being, but naturally it would take a little more than your average dose to subdue America.

Ivan frowned. He so wished Alfred could be alert for this. If only he could see the undoubtedly horrified look on his face and watch him as the paralysis set in and robbed him of his beloved strength.

Unfortunately, if America was conscious America could fight back and that was more trouble than it was worth.

Ivan checked his watch. It was just a little after 5 am. The poison would begin to wear off in 12 hours and require the second dose of the day to keep it active.

He'd be sure to stop in the afternoon to re-administer the poison. He couldn't have Alfred regaining his strength and kicking open the trunk to roll off down the highway.

He carefully sought a vein in Alfred's forearm and injected him.

Moments later smiling to himself he slammed the lid of the trunk and took his place behind the wheel.

The hours couldn't pass soon enough. He was too eager to see Alfred's face when he opened the trunk next.

...

The first thing Alfred noticed when he awoke was the pain in his throat. He knew his neck must be a garden of bruises. Second came the burning in his nose from the harsh chemicals he had inhaled. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and a throbbing pain in his head.

_'Chloroform.' _He thought _'I knew it.'_

Then, slowly, he acknowledged the jolting of his stomach and pitch black that surrounded him.

It didn't take him long to register that he must be in the trunk of a moving car.

The next thing he noticed as his eyes tried to adjust in the dark was the absence of Texas from his face.

Well, that only made sense he thought it wasn't like Russia was going to be bothered about whether or not he had his glasses when he'd taken him in his sleep. It was just a slight handicap, he assured himself, nothing major.

He felt ropes around his wrists and ankles and scoffed at them. The chloroform was a coward's move but if Russia thought that a few petty ropes and a locked trunk could hold him he had another thing coming. He'd just separate his legs and split the rope in half with the force of the movement.

Only, when he commanded his legs to move, they didn't obey.

Suddenly panic set in. His heart rate accelerated or, more correctly, it tried to. Instead of the rapid tattoo he expected there were painful, plodding thuds in his chest.

He concentrated, he tried harder and harder, but his legs wouldn't budge. They wouldn't move even an inch.

Paralyzed. Russia had paralyzed him.

The first horrified question that came to his mind was _'Is it permanent?'_

He had no way of knowing so he tried to calm himself and move on.

He tried his arms. They were heavy and weak but he could wiggle them very slightly which he took to be a good sign.

His breathing was labored and slow and his heart rate refused to respond to his panic, these clues tipped him off that whatever Russia had done to him it must have been some kind of drug or poison.

He had no idea what it was or how long it would last but he tried to calm himself and think clearly.

He couldn't have been out that long. He knew he'd been knocked out with chloroform, which would last a maximum of 2 hours with a very heavy dose, so unless Russia had used some other drug to sedate him then they must still be in America.

If they were still in America then he still had time.

Surely someone would notice a gigantic Russian driving around without proper paperwork.

There was nothing he could do at the moment but wait for the drug to wear off or for new information to present itself.

He tried to relax in the darkness. He was filled with dread that when the lid of the trunk opened he would find himself looking out on a foreign landscape.

_'Please,'_ he silently prayed _'let us still be in America.'_

He didn't spare any time for silly questions about why Russia had taken him or what he would do with him.

He knew why he had taken him and as for what he would do with him Alfred assumed the worst.

He was confident in his abilities to take on Russia head to head but this drug had really done a number on his confidence.

Russia wasn't going to fight fair. He supposed with the way things had been going back and forth between them the last few decades that wasn't really surprising.

America was used to being able to rely on his strength but with that taken from him he was at a loss.

What would he do now?

_'Just relax.' _he reassured himself. _'Stay calm. Don't despair.' _

It took a lot to kill a country. It wasn't something Russia could do over night just by taking him out to the woods and shooting him in the head. Hell, last he'd heard Prussia was still hanging on.

So whatever the Ruski threw at him, he could handle it.

The hours seemed to drag on in the dark trunk with nothing to distract him but the bumps and curves of the road and vain attempts at moving his limbs.

Just as he was starting to feel the heaviness in his arms lifting (the weight in his legs persisted) he felt the car pull to a stop.

Alfred didn't know whether to feel relief or fear.

He tried to roll himself to face the door of the trunk, but only succeeded in twisting enough so that he could look over his shoulder.

He held still and listened hard.

He could hear the sound of the car door opening, he could feel the car shake as it slammed closed, he could hear the crunching of boots outside.

The sound of the key turning in the lock was his cue to turn his expression to one of defiance.

He tried but he found his face numb and his lips difficult to move and his brow impossible to furrow.

It seemed the only look he could manage was a blank stupor.

The trunk was lifted and Alfred instinctively closed his eyes against the sudden intrusion of light.

When he opened them it was to see that they were parked along some rural highway off the road and shaded by trees.

Russia stood over him smiling and casting a shadow across his body.

"Privyet Amerika." He sing-songed "How are you feeling? The ride has not been too rough, I hope?"

"Zthe fuck d'you zhink?" Alfred slurred through numb tingling lips.

"Allow me to make you more comfortable my friend." Ivan leaned over and untied the ropes around his wrists and feet. "I do not think we will be needing those anymore. It was just a precaution if you woke up early." He tossed them to the side of the road.

When Ivan reached out to reposition him, Alfred tried to draw away even though he knew he would be unsuccessful. With an extreme force of will he swung one of his arms at Russia. It lifted a few inches from his body and fell back with a thud, leaving him thoroughly exhausted and panting for breath.

"Be careful." Ivan giggled. "We would not want you to hurt yourself."

He placed large hands on America's shoulders and turned him so he was laying flat on his back in the spacious trunk.

He casually reached for the glasses he'd kept in his pocket and slipped them back on America's face.

Ivan stroked Alfred's face privately rejoicing in how it must make the other nation feel to be unable to express his anger.

"Zthe fuck are you doing?" It came out weak, as if his tongue was sluggishly tripping over his words.

"Ssh Amerika," Ivan brushed the sweat drenched golden strands of hair off of Alfred's forehead. "It is time for your medicine."

Alfred could do nothing to repress the feelings that twisted in his gut when he saw Ivan draw the syringe from a box in his pocket. A surge of white, burning fear washed over him with nowhere to go and no way to be expressed when he saw the gleam of the sun on the needles. There were so many of them perfectly prepared with their contents excruciatingly measured.

Ivan was going to keep him like this and Alfred honestly did not know what he would do if these injections continued.

He could get by without his strength if he had to perhaps not to fight but at least to escape. However, if Russia had the means to keep him in this paralyzed state then he had no idea how he could regain the upper hand.

With difficulty, he turned his head and refused to watch as Ivan's cool fingers graced his forearm and the needle penetrated his vein. He wouldn't give the Russian the satisfaction of seeing any emotion in his eyes.

He felt Ivan's fingers on his chin turning him to face him. He had a flask held in his other hand and he pressed it to Alfred's lips.

Alfred refused to drink and Ivan made a disapproving noise from low in his throat.

"Drink. I know it is hot."

Alfred felt nauseated with disgust when Ivan's fingers violated his mouth and pried his lips apart to force the tip of the flask past his defenses and to trickle the cold water down his throat.

_'Well, at least it's not Vodka.' _Alfred tried to make the best of it.

"Well as much as I would love to spend more time with you , Amerika." Ivan smiled. "I am afraid we have a boat to catch."

With that he closed the lid of the trunk and plunged Alfred back into darkness.

June 29th, 1963, 5:00 pm, Ottawa

Miles away in Ottawa Ontario Matthew Williams was just heading home from a long day at the office.

He smiled into the summer sunlight. This year's Canada Day preparations were enough to cheer him up even with the continuing tension from Quebec.

His government had been busy working on a commission on bilingualism and biculturalism that they hoped would help them address the situation and quiet fears of inequality between the Anglophone and Francophone populations. Matthew himself was advising in favor of official bilingualism but of course reforms take time.

He was also excited to let Alfred know that he had been excused from work for the entire first week of July and so would be able to return to the States with him in order to celebrate his birthday on the 4th.

When Matthew arrived home he put on a pot of tea and settled down with a good book.

Alfred should be on his way home from work by now and Matthew was expecting a phone call to let him know what time he would be arriving in Ottawa tomorrow so he could arrange to pick him up from the airport.

As Matthew turned the pages of his book the minutes ticked by. His third (or was it fourth?) cup of tea went cold. His stomach began to nag him for dinner.

He glanced at the clock above his fireplace.

_Mon Dieu_, was it 8 o'clock already?

Why hadn't Alfred called?

Matthew knew his brother often had to work late.

Perhaps he would call him in the morning and explain his delay and tell him what time he'd be getting in?

Of course, if Alfred had to cancel, which he often did, Matthew wouldn't be surprised.

Alfred frequently missed Canada Day but he always called if he couldn't make it.

He reassured himself of this but still Matthew couldn't shake the sudden feeling that something was wrong. He felt that this was a phone call that should have come.

Maybe Alfred had just forgotten to call him?

He'd been under a lot of stress lately at home and abroad. Maybe it had just slipped his mind that he was meant to call his brother.

He stood up and put away his book. He gave Kumajiro a pat on his way to the kitchen.

He found the phone where it was mounted to the wall and dialed his brother.

He let it ring until the line went flat a mounting sense of dread filling him.

He chided himself that he was being silly. He told himself to put it from his mind, to eat dinner, and to get some sleep.

He tried to obey his rational thoughts but his instincts overwhelmed him and he spent a restless night in bed flickering between worried dreams and waking thoughts of Alfred.

He would call him tomorrow, surely, he would call him tomorrow.


	2. Something Blue

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! **

**Just a notice: any and all Russian in this story is thanks to my sister and frequent writing partner ****Ratsister. She's in my favorite author's list and I encourage you to check out her stuff if RusAme or GerIta is your thing. **

…**.**

_**Translations:**_

_**Phonetic – Cyrillic – English **_

_**Dobre Utro - ****доброе утро** –** Good morning **_

_**Pizda - ****пизда**** - Cunt **_

_**Ya hochu s'yest - Я хочу съесть - I want to eat**_

_**Mo'ee Americanski – мой американский - My American (male)**_

_**...**_

**The Rival North**

**Chapter Two: Something Blue**

June 30th, 1963, 7:00am, Southern Florida

Matthew awoke with the strangest sensation in his left forearm. He touched it gently and felt panic gradually rise in his chest. It was almost completely numb to his touch.

He flexed his fingers and moved his arm about. Everything was in perfect working order.

He shook his head thinking that he must have slept on it wrong.

If the problem persisted he'd have it looked at but it would probably be fine.

He didn't have much to do today in terms of work. He just needed to stop by the office to sign a few papers and see that everything was in order for tomorrow's celebration.

He selected his clothes for the day and laid them out on the bed before taking his morning shower.

The spare toothbrush and the red, white, and blue towel that Alfred insisted on leaving were glaring reminders of his nagging worry the night before.

_'You're being silly.' _He told himself._ 'You've gone weeks, months, without a word from Alfred before. Why are you suddenly acting like a silly girl waiting by the phone?'_

But he knew that wasn't right. He wasn't anxious because he was feeling some clingy need to have Alfred near him. No, this was something else, this was something deep down in his core telling him that something was wrong.

_'But that's ridiculous,'_ Matthew thought as he stepped into the warm stream of water._ 'Alfred can more than take care of himself and even if he was in some sort of trouble, I'd have no way of knowing.'_

He compromised with himself by deciding to call Alfred after he was done at the office which should be before noon.

As his Canadian soaped himself down and tried to wash away his seemingly irrational worry Alfred's horror story was continuing. Ivan had driven straight through the night stopping only twice to ensure Alfred remained drugged and docile. The last had been just two hours ago and Ivan was now sporting a nasty bite mark. America had bitten him hard enough to draw blood and it had left Russia in a sour mood. He didn't want to gag him as he truly enjoyed exchanging verbal barbs with the blond. He supposed he would just have to be more careful and not make the mistake of letting his wrist get anywhere near America's mouth. Ivan knew if he hadn't pulled away in time Alfred would've succeeded in breaking one of the fat blue veins that ran so shallowly under the pale white skin of his wrist.

_'That fucking pizda.' _Ivan thought with a frown._ 'He stained one of my favorite gloves with my own blood. __**With my own blood!' **_It would've been much less insulting if it had been Alfred's blood.

Still he couldn't deny Alfred's fighting spirit was one of the things he valued most about him. He would particularly treasure it once it was at his disposal as opposed to being a constant impediment to his plans.

Ivan whistled softly to himself. He was rather looking forward to spending the day on the boat with Alfred as they waited for the safe cover of night to slip past the coast guard.

His contact was working for the Cubans and was possessed of a very useful secluded property with access to a private beach where their boat would be docked.

Typically Ivan preferred to act alone but he had to admit sometimes allies were indispensable.

They would leave in the earliest hours of the morning. It made Ivan smile to think of Canada and how he would undoubtedly be the first to notice something was wrong when America did not make it to his celebration as promised. Was he already worried perhaps or cursing Alfred's forgetfulness?

Ivan hoped for the latter that way the sting of finding out the truth would be that much sharper.

It would be a mistake, however, to think that Ivan's joy came from any kind of desire to hurt Matthew. It was nothing personal. On the contrary, Ivan was looking forward to helping Canada become one with him once America was securely under his thumb, but until Alfred was broken, Matthew, as his closest ally and lover, could be seen as nothing but a rival to Ivan. A rival who would be quickly, easily, and joyously put down should he attempt to interfere. The same went for England. Especially for England, who Russia knew to have a more violent past than Canada. He would be keeping an eye on them both.

He was admitted to the gated estate without question and directed by one of the armed guards to drive straight down to the beach where he could see the boat docked. He enjoyed the brisk formality of the Cuban and American smugglers. Ivan considered himself to be an agreeable sort and under other circumstances he might have been interested in exchanging drinks or pleasantries with his hosts but these were rather extraordinary circumstances and all Ivan wanted right now was to make it safely out of American waters. All he cared about was getting Alfred on that boat and all he wanted from his accomplices was efficiency.

He parked and opened the trunk, giving Alfred his customary smile.

"Dobre Utro, Amerika. In a better mood I hope?" He asked ruffling Alfred's golden hair affectionately.

Alfred glared. "Fuck off , Ruski." his speech was still slurred but the longer he spent under Russia's sedative the more he became accustomed to it and learned to enunciate around his numb lips.

"You know," Ivan purred feeling his anger from earlier simmer under his skin. "in my country swearing is encouraged among equals but not tolerated from subordinates." He drew back and slapped Alfred hard across the face. "So now we understand each other, Da?"

"Go to hell, Red!" Alfred may not have been able to move to strike back but he wasn't going to be cowed by Ivan's bullshit and posturing. He could assert dominance all he wanted that didn't mean it would make a damn bit of difference to Alfred.

"Religion." Ivan returned to smiling and stroked the cheek he had just struck. "how quaint."

Eager to get Alfred on the boat Ivan reached down and pulled the paralyzed American into his arms.

Alfred groaned and pushed back against his chest weakly. "Get yer commie hands off me!"

Ivan sighed and ignored Alfred's futile attempts at resistance.

Ivan made his way to the boat. He and his irate cargo were shown to a small room on the lowest level of the ship where they would pass their voyage. Ivan noticed how one of the Americans working with the Cuban smugglers wouldn't meet Alfred's eyes. It was probably just a moment of weakness and misplaced patriotism but all weaknesses had to be cataloged and monitored when so much was at stake. Ivan would keep an eye on the man.

Ivan entered the room they had been given. He of course was free to move about the ship at will, but he was unwilling to let America out of his sight and so would spend the duration of the voyage confined with him. There was a small table with a chair and a thin bunk notched into the side of the ship.

Ivan lay Alfred on the thin bed and moved the chair so he could sit next to him.

He pulled his flask from his pocket, took a swig of Vodka and tried to relax.

"Now Amerika," Ivan reasoned "We have a long day ahead of us with nothing to do but wait. It would be best if you were sociable."

"Alright Russia," Alfred's eyes narrowed. He was very aware of the fact that he was soon to be taken out of his native boundaries. His only hope at this point was that the coast guard would catch the smugglers. He knew, however, how often they got by them and how often they could bribe their way by if need be. Consequently, he was mentally preparing himself for a long hard fight both physically and psychologically. For now, he'd go along, he'd talk to the damn Ruski and see if he could get him to lay his cards on the table. "Just what kind of commie game are you playing here? If you want to kill me you're welcome to try but it won't be easy." Talking so much was almost painful with his tongue and lips entirely numb and feeling swollen but he pushed through it. "If you think you can turn me red with these scare tactics though I'll tell you now it won't work."

"Nyet." Ivan frowned, violet eyes wide at the suggestion. "Killing you would be a terrible waste of resources!"

"Aw shucks." Alfred spat. "ain't you sweet? I'm telling you America will never accept communism."

"That is well." Ivan smiled "For I am not asking you to accept it."

"I am not interested in playing house with you Russia."

The arguing was riling him up and taking energy that Alfred really didn't have to spare but at least it was something to do. He hated to lay here helpless like some damsel in distress.

That comparison shook him to the core. He almost didn't hear Russia's reply as he thought to himself _'I'm the hero. I can't be the damsel because if I'm in distress there's no one there to save me.'_

"Playing house?" Ivan cooed, smiling happily and tapping his knee softly. "whatever do you mean, Amerika?"

"You know very well what I mean." Alfred glared "I won't be one of your satellite states."

At that Ivan's small smile split into a toothy grin. Alfred got the sinking feeling he had been waiting for him to say something along those lines.

He stood from his chair and had a seat next to Alfred on the small bunk.

"Have you never heard of personal space?" Alfred protested trying to use his arms to pull himself away from the other nation now occupying the bed with him.

"But Amerika, your space will be my space soon." Ivan took one of Alfred's hands causing the blue eyed nation to protest as loudly as he could under the effects of the sedative.

Ivan clutched his hand and leaned over him too close for comfort "Tell me Amerika, how do you like the idea of being close to me personally? Closer than any satellite state?"

Alfred felt a cold wave wash over him. "What?"

Ivan was pleased to see that he had the absent-minded American's full attention now.

"Da. You didn't think I would just be satisfied exerting political power over you? Not when I have the golden boy of the west in my grasp. Nyet Amerika, you will be fully incorporated after the eventual occupation. Not simple into the Soviet Union, nyet, but into Russia directly."

Alfred sneered. It wasn't going to happen. He'd fought too hard for full sovereignty to ever give it up especially not to become part of Russia.

"Just because you have me sedated doesn't mean you've crippled my military. My citizens will never tolerate an invasion."

Ivan smiled patronizingly and pat his head. "You're thinking too hard and too far ahead. There is no need for you to worry about that side of things. You will let me handle the politics now."

"The hell I will!"

"Amerika," Ivan sighed "must you be so difficult? You will be happy once we become one. You will be a very important administrative division. You'll be almost as big as Siberia! And you'll certainly have more resources and..." Russia frowned slightly "power... once you can be trusted with it. I'm even letting you retain your former identity in the name change. That's nice of me, da? You can still be called Amerika if you like."

"You want to make me an administrative division and I'm not even going to be the biggest one?"

That was just some serious bullshit as far as America was concerned. He was never becoming part of Russia anyway but the suggestion still pissed him off.

Ivan seemed to take his outburst as a positive sign and clapped his hands in childish glee.

"You are saying if you were the biggest you would be happy?" He smiled. "Because I suppose I could split Siberia in half..." That would anger the Siberians but if it made his acquisition of America easier it was more than worth it. "Just for you, Amerika."

"No dammit!" Alfred pushed back against the Russian who was really far too close to his face. "No, no no! Don't ever talk like that! I'm not joining with you!"

Ivan felt his heart sink and he drew away slightly. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. It was never that easy. His nearly 4,000 years of history had taught him that nothing was ever easy and everything worth having was fought for.

June 30th, 1963, 12:35 pm, Ottawa

Every squeak of the floorboards beneath his feet caused the world's second largest country to jump.

The calming tea he was drinking was not working neither was his constant self-criticism that he was being ridiculous.

"America can take care of himself!" He snapped out loud, suddenly glad no one was in the office.

Really a few missed phone calls were nothing new. Al had probably been called in to Washington on some urgent business. He would eventually call Mattie, apologizing, and probably saying he wouldn't be making it up tomorrow. No big deal. Later they would get together and Alfred would give him some present to make up for missing his birthday and usually spill all kinds of secrets, that his government would probably rather he didn't, about what had kept him away. Last year he had taken Matthew to MIT where computer programmers had developed a game that could be played on the computer. They called the thing _Spacewar! _Matthew and Alfred had spent the afternoon trying to shoot down each other's ships. Games on a computer, what a novel concept.

The same thing would probably happen this year. So why did he feel so anxious? Why was the persistent numbness in his arm (which had retreated now to affecting only a small section) drawing his attention like a magnetic force?

_'I'll just sit down and read the paper, finish my tea and take a nice, leisurely stroll on the way home.'_

The weather was lovely and sure to lift his spirits. He sat behind his desk and unfolded the newspaper. He had no interest in reading the front page stories about Cold War tensions and trouble in Quebec. He had to deal with those things every day. Instead he flipped farther in looking for local and human interest stories. A headline immediately caught his attention and caused the feeling in his gut to intensify. The article related the story of a local woman who had died recently from taking a fall down a flight of stairs in her home resulting in a broken neck. Apparently, the woman's identical twin sister had been overcome by such a strong sense that something was wrong that she had called and asked police to check up on her sister. It was then that she had been found and reported dead. The article closed by reiterating that there was no scientific proof or explanation of the experience, and gave some further anecdotal examples of the phenomenon.

_'That can't be what's happening to me.' _Matthew sipped his tea. _'Those stories only pertain to human beings and they aren't even proven.' _

But that didn't silence the little voice screaming from the back of his head _'There's something wrong with Alfred!'_

June 30th, 1963, 8:00pm, Southern Florida

In Ottawa, Matthew had just finished a late supper that he was having trouble keeping down and was now spending the evening before his birthday sitting anxiously by the phone with his small polar bear curled in his lap.

Meanwhile, on a boat in rural southern Florida, Alfred was clutching his own stomach which was growling with hunger as he drifted in and out of sleep. All the while he was being watched by a violet eyed Russian.

"_Mcdonalds!" _Alfred groaned. He had found solace in sleep. It was his only escape from both his hunger and Ivan's futile attempts at teaching him Russian.

Apparently the pale-haired northern nation had thought that reciting the Alphabet for Alfred would be a good way to pass the time until the sun had set. When Alfred had told him to shut up and find him some food Ivan had countered that he'd be happy to feed him if he asked in Russian.

"Tell me in Russian, Ameriki." He'd leaned over him and smiled. "You will need to learn it soon. Ya hochu s'yest _ . '_I want to eat.' Can you manage that?"

It was at that moment that Alfred resigned himself to starving to death and tried to lose himself in dreams.

Ivan, listening to Alfred moan in his sleep, couldn't control a giggle.

"Fuck off, Russia." Alfred glared from his place immobile on the bed as the sound of Ivan's laughter woke him up.

"Ah Amerika you are awake." Ivan twiddled with the scarf he insisted on wearing despite the crushing heat. "just in time."

"I hate the way you pronounce that!" Alfred snapped. "I don't need this shit. How about you don't talk to me at all?"

Alfred refused, absolutely refused, to let Ivan know how terrified he was. Instead he forced it down and hid it behind glares and sharp words. He wasn't scared of Russia, no, but he was scared of what Russia had done to him and of his own horrible immobility.

Ivan smiled his small smile and radiated an ominous aura. "The sun is setting you know. I was just about to carry you up on deck and let you take a last look at your homeland before we depart. You would like that would you not, _Amerika_?"

Alfred was starting to regain feeling in his lips and better control over the muscles of his mouth and so when Ivan leaned over him and reiterated his question Alfred simply leaned back and spit straight in his face earning himself a swift slap across the mouth.

Ivan stood back disgust clear from his wrinkled nose but amusement in his slight smirk.

"Is it that time again?"

He pulled a pocket watch from inside his coat. His small smirk immediately fell into a frown. He was nearly two hours late! His relief at having America on the boat and their imminent departure had clearly dulled his sense. He would have to be sharper. He would not allow this to happen again.

He produced the case of syringes and selected one. He held it up for America to see, letting the light flicker off the needle. America clearly thought he was concealing his fear but what he did not understand was just how sensitive to that particular emotion Russia was. The firm set of America's jaw, the sharp furrow of his brow and his unwavering eye contact might have fooled another nation but Russia saw the tiny details like the sudden change in his breathing, which was already so labored from the effects of the sedative, and the minute, oh so minute, widening of his eyes the second before he realized he needed to put up a front.

Those little tell-tale signs were so satisfying to Ivan.

_'My Amerika,'_ He thought _'How your body betrays you.'_

"Don't come near me." The happy go lucky blond growled his chipper voice unusually low.

Ivan neglected to reply as he advanced on his captive.

When he was in range, Alfred summoned all his strength to head butt Ivan. He knew it wouldn't last long, he knew it was a futile gesture, he knew he didn't have the strength to stand but he was America dammit and he was born to be defiant.

The blow surprised Ivan. He would have to consider increasing the dosage if Alfred was capable of such aggression after only a two hour lapse. He was dizzy but he didn't fall or even hesitate. He grabbed Alfred's arm roughly, and with none of his usual finesse, stabbed the needle straight into his vein discharging the poison a great purple bruise blossoming instantaneously from the impact.

June 30th, 1963, 8:00pm, Ottawa

"Aaah!"

Matthew, who had been dozing on his couch woke suddenly and cried out in unknown tandem behind his southern brother.

He hissed and clutched his inner forearm which was coloring inexplicably with a bruise.

_'What's wrong with me?'_

The northern nation felt his heart rate accelerate. He fought the urge to panic.

_'Who can I call? What can I do? Why is this happening?' _

The only person he could think of to call was England. Sure, the old man tended to get surly and reclusive during the first week of July for obvious reasons, but he was the only one Matthew could call who might be able to explain something so...so...abnormal, so frighteningly occult, as what was happening to Matthew now.

_'Phantom pain, spontaneous bruises, this nagging worry...'_

Matthew wanted to pick up the phone that moment but was restrained by his thoughtful cautious nature.

_'It's awfully late in London. Is this really an emergency? What if it's all in my head? I don't want to bother anyone. It's best if I call him tomorrow.'_

Matthew stood up and begun to pace the floor rubbing the bruise that had appeared on his arm.

He spoke out loud, needing the reassurance of his own voice and trying to sound convincing.

"I don't have any actual evidence that Alfred is in trouble." He nodded along.

"He's more than capable of taking care of himself. You've seen him drag cars, swing buffalo, you _know_ how strong he is." He took a deep breath and remembered the feeling of those strong arms wrapped tight around him. "Nothing could've happened to him."

His stomach flipped, unconvinced. "Nothing!" he repeated in a more commanding voice.

_'This is America we're talking about,' _He thought to himself _'and I'm sitting here acting like Switzerland if Lichtenstein was out on a date. No one can hurt Alfred.'_

He ran his fingertips lightly over the painful bruise. "Whatever is happening to me isn't related to Alfred. I'll call England tomorrow and get it all sorted out. Alfred will eventually make an appearance and be full of apologies and if he sees I've been worrying he'll just laugh!"

Matthew decided to retire early. There was something washing over him making him feel fatigued and he suddenly felt like sleep was the most appealing thing in the world.

He stumbled to his room and fell into a turbulent unconsciousness.

_He was pitched into blackness. Everything felt numb and there was a rocking under him as though he was adrift on a wave. He felt as heavy as fresh driftwood that was only just beginning to rot on the inside. And oh there was something rotten inside. He could feel it. He was driftwood. That was the single image in his mind. He was driftwood in warm waters slowly being eaten apart by gribbles and shipworms from the inside out. They were boring into him, destroying the very fibers that bound him. _

_Had he once been solid as an oak? Strong? Had he seemed impenetrable before being felled and cast afloat? Before these vile parasites had taken hold inside of him? _

_Diftwood being eaten alive, sinking, sinking slowly into numbness, blackness, crashing beneath the waves, becoming colder and colder as he descended. _

Matthew's eyes moved rapidly behind tightly shut lids as he was lost entirely to his dream.

Meanwhile, miles away, his freshly drugged lover was being hoisted into strong arms and carried above deck.

"Look," Ivan purred taking a handful of golden hair and using it to turn Alfred's lulling head. "Look Mo'ee Americanski, it will be long before you return."

Alfred's tongue was heavy and his heart painfully clenched. His mouth would not form the curses he longed to let free and the poison coursed inside him.


	3. Something Old

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! ****An extra thank you to Ratsister who has agreed to help with my editing from now on and for helping me when I hit a massive writer's block when it came to writing Cuba and Russia interacting.**

**The Rival North**

**Chapter 3: Something Old**

**July 1st, 1963, 12:30am, The Gulf of Mexico**

With the sound of heavy boots on the stairs, Alfred knew Russia was returning from doing _god only knew _what above deck. The heavy footfalls continued down the hall and toward his room, no, his _cell_ below deck. He knew it was Russia, as everyone else on board the ship had the good sense to wear more climate appropriate foot wear, leaving the heavily booted steps unmistakable.

Ivan entered whistling, completely unfazed by America's glare, he reached into his coat to pull out a pocket watch.

"Thirty minutes after midnight, Amerika, and we have just entered Cuban Waters."

Ivan was elated. Just as promised, the men who's cooperation he had bought in the coast guard had been working tonight.

Money had changed hands and precious cargo had left the bounds of its sovereignty.

Did the bribed men know it was more than drugs being smuggled? Would they care? Ivan wondered all this idly as he returned the time piece to his pocket.

Meanwhile, Alfred was rolling the information he'd been given in his mind. He'd lost track of time after all those hours in the dark trunk and here below deck just waiting for night to fall. He knew he'd been taken on the night of the 28th and he'd noticed that Russia seemed to give him his injections at 12 hour intervals.

_'Fuck.'_

He felt his stomach plummet even farther when he realized what day it was.

_'Happy Birthday Mattie.'_

He bit his numb lip and refused to look at Russia.

_Fuck_. He was going to miss again this year. A bitter thought ran through his mind that at least it was out of his control this time. The thought caused his stomach to churn. Alfred did not like for things to be out of his control. Ever.

Matthew would be the first to notice he was gone, but how long would it be before his beloved realized something was wrong? After all, Alfred didn't have the best track record when it came to keeping in touch. He'd been so unbelievably busy these past few decades since the end of the war.

Matthew would be celebrating his 96th year of independence today and Alfred wouldn't be there to tease him that he was late to the independence party. For whatever reason this thought bothered Alfred more than the fact he had just been kidnapped beyond his borders. As ridiculous and insane as that was he couldn't deny it was true.  
>He wanted Matt; he worried about him. Alfred was supposed to be the hero. He was supposed to be able to protect the ones he loved but how could he do that now?<p>

Russia's tone was enigmatic as ever; Ivan seemed to be caught between sympathetic and mocking as he spoke, "You are thinking of Kanada, da?"

Alfred had been growing resigned and indifferent to Ivan's jabs but hearing that beloved name on those hated lips was like a knife in the gut.

"Do not worry Amerika, he will join us eventually. Sooner or later depending upon your cooperation."

Ivan's violet eyes crinkled happily as he smiled.

"If you put a hand on him, I will fucking obliterate you!" Alfred hissed.

"Will you?" Ivan giggled and stood over his paralyzed captive. "How?"

He lifted Alfred by the shoulders and then just as suddenly let him fall. The blue eyed nation's head hit the wall with a smack, knocking him dizzy. His arms, too heavy and numb to move were unable to catch himself.

As Ivan giggled over him and Alfred slid back down onto his pillow, he worked to keep his spirits up.

_'I'm the hero' _He repeated to himself _'and no matter how bleak things look, right always triumphs. I just don't know how yet.'_

July 1st, 1963, 2:00 am, The Cuban Coast

"You understand Amerika," Ivan smiled as he gagged him. "I cannot have you insulting our host."

Alfred only glared as he was carried from the boat to a waiting jeep. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth, his blood staining the white cloth gag. He'd taken to biting the hell out of Russia every time he got close enough. Alfred didn't care how ridiculous it made him feel. His methods of resistance were limited and even if they made him look more like an angry dog than the powerful nation he was, he would not give them up.

Ivan now sported several bandages carefully concealed under his coat. America was surprisingly good at managing to get under the fabric to sink his teeth straight into flesh. As infuriating as it was, bloodying the other nation's jaw had a way of taking the edge off.

On their ride towards Cuba's private palatial estate and the waiting plane, Alfred was stewing in his hatred. _They'd been on a thaw! A thaw, dammit!_ After the successful resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis last year things had been looking up. It now seemed that Cuba and Russia had a meeting of their own last month when Castro was visiting the USSR on matters of '_agriculture and construction'._

How closely were their governments involved in his abduction? Had the Soviets and the Cubans approved of this malevolent venture or was this, as was all too common among their kind, a private effort to sway politics through personal coercion?

He was betting on the latter.

_'Goddamned two faced Ruski!' _Alfred thought as he swallowed hard tasting the metallic tang of his own blood. He'd been almost friendly last year when he'd conceded to withdraw the missiles. _Almost_  
><em>.<em>  
>Alfred felt his heart harden. It was simply a moment of weakness to think that they could coexist.<br>Communism and capitalism could never live side by side. That was clear to him now.

Ivan idly tapped his fingers on his beloved pipe as he rode by Alfred's side. No matter how the soviet nation wanted to speed their journey along as quickly as possible, he knew it would be in poor taste were he not to stop for drinks with the young ally who had proven so valuable. Cuba was young but idealistic, poor but ambitious and the location of his spirited new comrade's homeland was undeniably useful. Cuba would be the stepping stone of his westward expansion. The least Russia could do for him would be to stop in for a drink, a cigar, and to let him get in a few good punches on their captive in retaliation for the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion that had passed barely 2 years ago.

When they arrived at the sprawling compound littered with guards, Ivan lifted Alfred into his arms. He'd perfected a way of holding him with one gloved hand clutching at his hair in order to keep him from being able to headbutt him.

Alfred's legs and arms were nothing but dead weight from the coniine and so, robbed of any alternative, he chose to bear the shame of it all with as much dignity as possible.

Two guards led them up the walk. Ivan smiled at the sight of the private jet waiting in the distance.

By the minute, sluggish turn of America's head, Ivan knew his captive took note of it as well.

"Patience Amerika," He laughed softly "First, there is a small diplomatic meeting to make."

Alfred grunted dismissively and turned his head away.

Cuba was waiting for them in his office, standing behind his desk and smiling at his more powerful ally. A pack of cigars and a bottle of rum in front of him on the desk had been prepared for their arrival.

"Welcome Comrade Russia!" Cuba gestured widely with one arm. "just drop _that _wherever you please."

Ivan propped Alfred up in one of the chairs littered about the office before moving forward to shake the hand that Cuba was offering him.

"Comrade Cuba." Russia shook the younger nation's hand. "You have accomplished much for the soviet cause in such a short time."

The swarthy Islander grinned and motioned to the box of fine cigars. "Gracias comrade, gracias!" Cuba went on, as Russia selected a cigar, "Our system is of course modeled after yours, my friend." Cuba lifted a glass to Russia, "Since your generous gift of tanks and weaponry two years ago, we have brought all enterprise under state control, and have," Cuba glared over at America, who was returning the hateful stare from his chair across the room, "defeated the decadent bourgeois mafia that ruined the Island with their gambling and capitalist 'entertainment'."

"Da, you have done well comrade;" Russia took a sip of the offered rum politely though it was a pale replacement for vodka. He continued, "Your location is an important one; the capitalists are so close, they will try to silence you before their own people can learn the truth and rise up."

Ivan took a long puff on the cigar. Cuba definitely had a talent for making them.

"The embargo will not intimidate me. I do not need America's assistance; My boss will never trade with those pigs!" Cuba leaned onto his desk, eyes still locked onto America's, he took a long drink of rum and went on, "We will use our location to spread the glorious freedom of communism to the United States!"

Russia smiled at his young passionate ally. "Horosho…Good, good, my comrade." Violet eyes sparkled at the recognized ruthlessness in the other nation's voice. "The attempt on your boss's life has done much to increase your resolve and vigilance, da?"

Ivan knew Cuba's revolution had been a violent one; knew he would naturally have counter revolutionaries that would need to be silenced. At first Russia had been worried the young nation, so recently freed from the influence of both Spain and America would not be able to cement the strong one party system needed to maintain absolute control.

Happily, such was not the case, and with only some help from a more experienced friend, Cuba had become all that Russia needed him to be, right at America's door. A more advantageous friend could not have been dreamed of.

"Yes…" Cuba slowly took a long drag on his cigar and puffed out rings of smoke that floated above their heads listlessly. Cuba fixed Alfred with a murderous glare again. "The capitalist pigs show their hypocrisy again and again." He sat up from where he had been leaning against the desk and spoke to America, who for once could not speak back.

"The mafia is a blight to your land, but you will go to bed with them against me. You would give them my country, shake their hands, and give them ammunition, even as you fight them in Chicago, in New York….you would give them my Havana."

Ivan sipped at the rum and then sat it down on Cuba's desk. He looked his newest friend over, taking in the rage boiling under the passionate revolutionary's skin.

"Da, America will learn from his mistakes, he will learn how his greedy ways have no place in the new world…Education is a weapon whose effects depend on who holds it in his hands and at whom it is aimed." Russia quoted his boss adding, "We must be his teachers, da?"

Cuba smiled at his powerful friend. "If the opposition disarms, well and good. If it refuses to disarm, we shall disarm it ourselves." He quoted his ally's boss back, eager to show his commitment and that he kept up with Russia's affairs.

"Da, we will disarm him, and as a part of my union he will learn how to be in the new world." Russia looked to America and thought of the painful, rebellious bites he had sustained. It would do the stubborn nation good to learn some humility.

"Why don't you teach him now, the price of his hypocrisy."

Cuba's dark brown eyes lit with glee. He sat down the glass of rum beside Russia's on his desk. "I will enjoy giving America this lesson."

It was all Alfred could do to glare hatefully at the approaching Cuban, and the Russian bastard behind him. '_Spread the glorious freedom of communism to the united states?' LIKE HELL. _America may have been drugged, kidnapped and taken into enemy territory, but he would never give up. Even if he had lost his strength, temporarily, America reminded himself. Temporarily. Alfred continued to throw all the words he was unable to say, all the punches he could not land, he willed to be expressed in his eyes.  
>Cuba's smile dropped as he approached.<p>

For a moment the two stared at eachother, the silent hatred hanging thickly in the air between them.

Finally Cuba seemed to decide something in his mind; eyes narrowed, the militant shoulder's squared, he pulled back a fist and then brought crashing heavily into America's jaw.

Smiling in grim satisfaction at the muffled and slurred sound of defiance coming from the once more powerful nation, Cuba took hold of America's collar to lift him in the chair.

"Who is strong now, America? Where is your military now?" Cuba gloated as he threw another punch, this time to the captive nation's gut. "You are powerless to stop me."

Unable to express his pain, but no less able to feel it, America could only glare, keeping up his defiant litany in his mind. He would not give in. These dirty commies would get no such satisfaction from him!

America saw Russia step closer as Cuba dropped him into the chair again.

Cuba took another long drag of his cigar.

Alfred felt the Islander's large hand grip his jaw, eyes widened as he saw the glowing red tip of the lit cigar approaching his face. Knowing there was no use, he couldn't help but try to move away, try to avoid the burning pain he knew was coming.

Of course, his muscles disobeyed him. They would not move. He lay there physically passive, internally fighting against everything that had been said, and was being done to him.

America readied himself for the pain. He would get over it. So the cigar would leave a mark? No problem, when he got out of here, and he would, America told himself, any scars he retained would only serve as reminders of why he could never let the weed of communism grow in his beautiful states.

It was with surprise that no pain came. America had looked away, but now moved his eyes back toward his captors.

Cuba was looking quizzically at Russia, the Slavic nation had taken hold of the Carribean's wrist, stopping the cigar an inch from his face.

"Nyet. Not his face."

Cuba looked at Russia, a new expression coming over his features and then disappearing just as fast. Cuba nodded to Ivan. "The arm?" The Cuban asked his friend.

As Ivan nodded and let go of the other's hand, Alfred felt his sleeve pushed up, his right arm turned so that the softer, pale flesh of the inside was turned upward.

"Your first lesson." Cuba whispered darkly as he brought the hot red cinder to the inside of Alfred's forearm, just above the wrist.

The pain of his burning flesh was intense, coursing up the arm, and down to the fingertips that longed to clench but lay uselessly immobile.

Finally withdrawing the butt of the spent cigar, Cuba stepped back, admiring his work.

Russia stood back, now leaning against the desk, his slight smile somewhat less, his expression impossible to read.

Russia turned to Cuba as the other moved to refill his rum.

Cuba chose his words carefully, not wanting to insult his powerful ally were he wrong. "Gracias mi amigo." Cuba took a long sip, "Thank you for this opportunity…I would like to repay you. There is a plant that grows here; I think you may be interested in its properties." Seeing the violet eyes turn to him intrigued, Cuba went on, "there is no reason you should not have a little fun for all your hard work."

"Oh?" Russia was intrigued; the round about way Cuba was speaking about the plant interested him. The usual blunt and brash revolutionary sounded positively mysterious.

Cuba walked around behind his desk. Moving the framed poster of Castro that hung on his wall, Cuba fiddled with the combination lock on the built in wall safe.

When he turned back to face Russia again, the Cuban was holding a small jar of some greenish yellow off white ointment. It looked vaguely like hand lotion to America as he stared curiously concerned.

Cuba cleared his throat. "This is a mixture of Brugmansia and various other herbs, mixed together in such a way they combine the alkoloids atropine, hyoscyamine, and scopolamine. When applied to the skin they produce hallucinations and..."

Russia could see Cuba was uncomfortable.

"and?" Russia prompted.

"Well, I only suggest that you may be able to humiliate him further, and if you feel so inclined…"  
>Cuba was afraid to insult the Soviet Union he so very much depended on, but continued, feeling fairly sure he had not mistaken the look and hesitation to allow him to burn America's face. "This ointment will induce hallucinations as well as…work as an aphrodisiac. A strong one."<p>

Seeing that Russia was not coming at him with the deadly pipe, but was instead looking at his captive American with one brow raised, The Cuban went on. "Obviously, this is a very dangerous concoction for humans, and more often than not use ends in death from an overdose, but we are not entirely human, being more than that, having more resiliency…I trust you will not ask why I have this?"

"Nyet, of course not…" Russia answered sounding far away, clearly lost in his own thoughts as his violet eyes roved over America; Alfred's immobile body unable to express his horror in such contrast to his very, very expressive blue eyes.

Violet eyes tore themselves reluctantly from the wide blue eyes and golden hair the color of the sunflower's petals.

"Spasiba Cuba. Gracias." Russia took the offered jar as Cuba reminded him that he should, of course make sure to wear gloves and went on to describe how best to apply it, how long to wait for the effects, and once they began, how long until they would wear off.

America's thoughts were screaming at him. His limbs just had to obey him, just had to. With the most effort he had applied to anything ever in his lifetime, including the revolution, Alfred willed his body to move.

The poison Russia had continued to inject stopped every signal from reaching its targeted muscles.

He could do no more than sit there slumped in the chair where Cuba had dropped him and watch as Ivan pocketed the jar and shook Cuba's' hand before saluting his fellow communist and turning approach him.

_No, no, no, no, no. Its not going to happen. I'm not going to Russia, I am not going to Russia…no way that fucking commie is gonna be…is gonna,…no. no fucking way..._

These were America's thoughts as Russia drew nearer and lifted him from the chair, horrified thoughts of what Cuba had given his abductor, how Russia's eyes had looked him over, and how he would nuke the shit out of Moscow if Ivan tried what he clearly intended to...

Alfred wished he had not noticed, but he had as Russia had lifted him from the chair with slightly softer hands than before, and when he spoke there was something there hidden behind the words.

An ominous tenderness, a pseudo softness.

"Come Amerika, we have a plane to catch, da? You must be tired of traveling; soon you will be home."

Alfred steeled himself. 18 hours. 18 hours trapped on a plane, immobile, next to his nemesis.  
>He felt rage simmer inexpressible under his skin. He closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself.<p>

There was nothing he could do except try to keep a level head and an eye open for oportunities.

**July 1st, 1963, 12:00 pm, Ottawa [8 hours left in Al's plane ride to Russia]**

Matthew rubbed the tender spot on his right arm. He had woken with a mysterious burn and that nagging worry in his stomach had intensified to a distracting level. Alfred had answered none of his calls.

A voice suddenly interrupted his musings.

It was the voice of one of the secretaries he worked alongside. "You seem out of sorts today Mr. Williams, is something wrong?"

They had worked together for years but her security clearance was not high enough for her to know him as Canada but only as Mr. Williams the Prime Minister's quiet adviser.

"You're usually so enthusiastic about the Canada Day celebrations." She mused as they stood side by side, watching their boss have his photo taken.

Matthew had to admit the strange feelings he'd been having had put a damper on his birthday. The party was just as festive as it was every year with parades, fireworks, music and his flag flying from every window.

He put on a smile as he waved his co-worker off. "It's nothing Mary!"

Mathew was looking forward to stopping by his apartment before heading out for lunch. Today was one of the few days that England bothered to remember him, and since the work day was just coming to an end in London, Matthew could expect a birthday phone call over lunch.  
>His natural instinct was to smirk about the fact that Alfred didn't get a phone call from England on <em>his<em>birthday like he did every year but that only brought back his panicky thoughts.

His sleep last night had been plagued by strange nautical themed dreams that had left him feeling sick.

The bruise on his arm was still there, glaring up at him, all purple and black and shocking against pale skin.

With promises to make it back in time for lunch on Parliament Hill, Canada excused himself from the photo shoot.

He reached his apartment just in time to catch the phone ringing.

"Hello? Canada speaking."

As expected it was England on the other line. Arthur cleared his throat. Matthew knew the former empire often had conflicted feeling about his charges growing into independence but he was generally happy about it, accepted the changing times, and kept on good terms with all his former colonies that made up the Commonwealth.

He only got touchy on the subject of America and especially in July which would make mentioning his concerns to England a touch awkward for Canada.

"Yes well, Happy Birthday lad. Things are well in Ottawa I trust?"

"Yes thank you," Matthew took a seat next to the phone. "I have an hour before lunch on Parliament Hill and we'll be having concerts into the evening."

"That sounds lovely. You should be receiving a gift in the mail. I'm sorry I couldn't attend."

Matthew could hear the faint clinking of a spoon against porcelain as Arthur stirred his tea.

There was a brief pause before Arthur sighed and couldn't refrain from asking. "That fool brother of yours is there running amok I suppose. Try not to let him ruin your day."

_'Of course.' _Matthew thought. That is how it always was. England could be here if he wanted to but it was more important to him that he be able to give America the cold shoulder for the whole month of July than it was for him to be with Canada today.

"Actually he couldn't make it." Matthew replied, listening for Arthur's reaction.

The island nation sounded surprised. "Oh?" He made a vague noise of disapproval. "Well I hope he called. Honestly that boy has no manners I don't know where I went wrong..."

Matthew felt his heart sinking. Could they have a single birthday phone call or conversation of any sort that didn't devolve into England complaining about America?

"You turned out so much better."

_'And yet,'_ Matthew thought _'even when you compliment me you always tie it to an insult for him.'_  
>"I was wanting to talk to you about that." Matthew began under his breath. "He didn't call which isn't like him. I was wondering if you knew of something that had come up, um, politically?"<p>

England snorted. "Nothing on my end, I assure you. His next diplomatic visit to London isn't scheduled until September."

"Well..." Matthew twirled the phone cord in his fingers. He didn't want to sound foolish but he had to confide in someone. "some things have been happening. Strange things. I thought you might be able to help."

"Such as?" Arthur asked Matthew could hear the clink of a teacup meeting it's saucer.

Matthew steadied himself. Even if he sounded crazy, he just had to get it out. "I've been having the physical symptoms of anxiety every time I think about Alfred and even though I know it's silly I...I can't shake the feeling that somethings wrong with him. More over, I've been having strange dreams and unexplainable pains, especially in my left arm. Yesterday I woke up and it was numb and last night I felt a sharp stabbing sensation and it began to bruise. Arthur, I'm not sure what's happening to me."

He spoke hurriedly and got it all out then took in a deep breath and waited for England's reaction.

Miles away in his flat overlooking the Thames, England felt sudden frost fill his chest. He'd worried this might one day manifest itself. His former colonies were both still so young in the reckoning of nations that they still had so much to discover about themselves, so much history to build.

Arthur slumped back against his chair and let the lids close over his emerald eyes. He was remembering his own childhood in the days before Christianity had come to his island home.

"There was a belief, in the old days," Arthur began. "That twins share a singe soul, so they cannot be parted and should always live near one another."

"A single soul?" Matthew felt his stomach lurch. He was tied to Alfred of course but he was also very much his own person.

"Yes," Arthur hummed lightly and Matthew could hear him pick his tea cup back up and take a comforting sip. "This was said to explain why twins often experienced strange phenomenon such as feeling each other's pain or being able to communicate on an empathic level with each other in ways other people could not."

Matthew remembered the article in the paper. It seemed so ridiculous and yet here was Arthur ready to take it seriously. "Are you saying I could be having these feelings because Alfred is in distress?"

"Well that all depends on whether or not you believe the old superstitions."  
>Matthew knew for a fact that Arthur did. The elder nation let out a light chuckle.<p>

"It certainly makes more sense than India's belief that twins are reincarnated lovers. What rubbish."

Matthew swallowed hard. Alfred and he kept their relationship secret for political reasons and not because they were subject to human taboos but it still made him uncomfortable to tiptoe anywhere near the subject with their older brother Arthur. He laughed lightly.

"Right, well, even if one did believe these superstitions they'd only be talking about humans right? As nations we'd be exempt?"

Arthur sighed. "I couldn't tell you. Our kind are rare and the ties we form are more complicated than biological family bonds. Twins among us are even rarer. In the old lore twins are regarded as having their own special kind of magic. However whether or not that magic exists between you and your brother or how it manifests I can't say."

Matthew frowned his heart was throwing itself against his ribcage again. Why couldn't England tell him something more concrete? "I think Alfred is in trouble." Matthew whispered. "and I can't get a hold of him."

Arthur bit his lip. He'd have to tread carefully here. He didn't want to entice the quieter more sensitive of the North American brothers to panic.  
>"Your brother can take care of himself." He said repeating the words Matthew had been trying so desperately to convince himself of. "Isn't that what he's always set out to prove?"<p>

England's tone was bitter. The bushy browed nation had a long memory.  
>Canada listened with rapt attention as the other continued.<p>

"So even if you are experiencing some mirror pain I'm sure it's nothing America can't handle himself. In fact whatever it is he probably got himself into it. That's usually how it goes. I'm sure he'll turn back up."

In his head Matthew agreed with all this, he understood it was logical and he should just be patient but the sensations in his body were so strong they didn't want to let him listen to his reason.  
>"I...I suppose."<br>Arthur instantly picked up on Matthew's hesitance.  
>"Listen lad, don't do anything rash or get yourself in trouble for your brother's sake. I won't have you following in Nisien's footsteps."<br>Matthew scrunched his brow "Whose?"

England sighed. "I told you this tale countless times when you and America were young. It's one of Wales's from his Mabinogion. You remember how Nisien's twin brother Efnisien started that war with the Irish and then when the hotheaded fool went and got himself injured his far too kind hearted brother hid him, tended his wounds and taking his brother's cloak passed himself off for his brother to lure the Irish away from his twin while he healed? And you remember where that got Nisien don't you lad? Tortured to death by the bleeding Irish that's where!"

Matthew remembered this story now. Arthur had told them lots of stories when they were younger both of his own and of his older brother's.  
>"Honestly," Arthur continued to grumble. "The only good thing that bloody Efnisien ever did was sacrifice himself in repentance and blow up that cursed cauldron with his unearthly strength."<p>

Matthew was starting to regret confiding in Arthur.  
>"That's a bit of a harsh comparison don't you think?" he squeaked.<p>

"Nonsene!" Arthur snapped. "It's the truth. Don't waste your time worrying about America. There's no one on earth except for Russia who can challenge his strength and if they were going head to head you'd be feeling a lot more than a little numbness on your arm and the whole world would know about it."

However harsh Arthur's words were Matthew knew how much he loved Alfred so he didn't waste his breath defending his brother. Instead he looked at his watch and realized he was running out of time to get changed and get to his lunch on Parliament Hill. The conversation hadn't soothed his worries at all, it had done just the opposite.

"Well thank you for the birthday wishes but I really should go. I have that lunch to get to."  
>England's reply was quick "Right, right. I'll see you at the next summit."<br>The line went dead and Matthew put the phone down.

His thoughts were turbulent as he made his way to his bedroom to change into a fresh suit for his formal lunch.

Arthur didn't understand and Matthew knew he shouldn't expect him to. Arthur didn't know just how intense the bond he had with Alfred was. America was the only country his land touched, they shared the world's longest unguarded border across which their citizens moved freely without passports.

He was his own man but Alfred was certainly his other half.

They were opposites in many ways but they completed each other. To the rest of the world they seemed so similar, and it was true that they shared a common core based on the land they were founded upon and the people who settled that land, but Alfred and Matthew were the only ones who truly understood their intimate exchange.

Alfred was the south to his north, the exuberance that countered his reserve, the impulse to his reflection, he was the sword to his shield and the war to his peace. They defined themselves through their contrasts, they explored who they were by testing the limits of their commonality. They had their individual identities but also their unique duality.

Arthur cautioned him not to worry about Alfred. He told him to let the superpower handle his own affairs as he seemed more than capable of doing. What Arthur didn't understand was that Matthew couldn't help but worry about Alfred because Alfred was his to worry about.

As Matthew tied his tie he smiled a small smile thinking of how much it would annoy Alfred if he knew he was thinking this but Alfred _belonged_ to him. Undoubtedly a part of him belonged to Alfred in turn but the fact remained that Alfred was _his_. His to worry about, his to argue with, his to love, his to hate, his to suffer with, his to suffer because of, and to suffer for, and his to make suffer or to make happy in the way only he could.

He had been there before America had risen to preeminence and he would be there after that power dwindled.  
>He had a claim on America that no other nation had ever had or ever would have.<p>

There were sometimes negative repercussions of his association with his twin but there were positives as well and the end he loved him and love made any question of right or wrong irrelevant.

Matthew felt his heart quicken, this time in pleasure rather than panic, as he thought of the side of Alfred only he got to know. He thought of the insecurity in the bold nation's eyes when he would let Matthew inside of him and how he would in turn be ever so careful to soothe that insecurity as he moved inside of his southern brother and drew out both their pleasure.

He thought of the impossibly strong arms that would hold him afterwords and the whispered promises that he would damn the world to protect him and the twinge of guilt that he would feel as he chided Alfred for his violent words while secretly adoring being the object of such a basic and animal devotion.  
>It was in these ways that they enabled each other. Matthew was only so peaceful with Alfred as his aggression.<p>

Matthew wasn't a superstitious man by nature but the events of the past few days had him unsettled.  
>As he hurried out the door to his lunch on Parliament hill he resolved that he would fly to D.C tomorrow and put his suspicions to rest.<p>

**July 1st, 1963, 5:00pm, London**

Since ending his conversation with Matthew, Arthur had taken to pacing the floor of his spacious flat.

He'd always known those boys had a dangerous connection. It had driven him mad with paranoia during the revolution. Fortunately, like Nisien, Matthew did not share his brother's predilection for violent solutions. What if he was right? What if there was something wrong with Alfred? With America being a key player in the Cold War that was currently holding the entire world hostage, anything that threatened him spelt doom for his allies and all those opposing The Soviet Union.

This was all besides his obvious emotional attachment for the boy. Arthur sighed. Damn his broken heart. There was nothing for it, he'd have to leave the city and head to his country home.

He put away his tea service and donned his coat. This is why he could never completely lose the old ways besides their usefulness they made up an ancient and abiding part of his identity. He knew it was the same for Russia, whatever the stance of his current government, the old ways lived on in his former ally. England knew this and he knew it well for it was the same with him. The old ways had survived the rise of Christianity in Russia and so would they survive it's fall.

It was nearing 9pm in England (and nearly 4pm in Ottawa) when Arthur arrived at his secluded country cottage having driven straight from London.  
>It had been too long since he'd visited. His garden was growing over with weeds. The moonlight lit his path and bathed everything in a soft blue-white glow.<br>He didn't even bother going inside the cottage but instead looped around the back, heading straight for his cellar.

He easily navigated the mossy cellar steps in the dark. When he reached the bottom of the narrow stairway he reached inside his coat for a lighter and lit the candles he kept in sconces along the wall.

The dim glow of candlelight showed England's cellar to be rather large and well kept apart from the occasional patch of moss that managed to blossom on the stone floor. It was devoid of furniture, but two large trunks sat against one wall and large, floor to ceiling length cupboard was sitting on the opposite wall facing them. Next to it was an old oak wardrobe carved with scenes from the legend of king Arthur. Sconces holding candles were dotted all around the cellar.  
>It was a simple, functional space for the practice of magic.<p>

England shrugged off his coat and threw it over one of the trunks before moving across to the wardrobe and pulling out his old gray cloak.  
>Arthur hadn't used his scrying mirror in years but he was sure he still had the touch. He kept the mirror carefully wrapped in velvet in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. He carried the mirror to the center of the cellar and placed it carefully, still wrapped, on the cool stone floor. Crossing to the cupboard he retrieved a stick of chalk, two black candles, and a jar of saltwater he had collected from the North Sea and blessed by leaving out in the moonlight.<br>He drew a protective circle with the chalk and then took his place kneeling on the floor before the mirror. He lit the two black candles to ward away and negative spirits that might be watching.

He then tenderly unwrapped the mirror, it was old, black, and slightly curved revealing the imperfect craft of the ancient time in which it was made. He poured some of the salt water onto the mirror's surface and began to wash it, every loving stroke drawing him farther back into his memories.  
>When the mirror was properly cleaned he sprinkled a little more salt water across the surface, just enough to create a thin pool. He held the mirror carefully in his hands and focused intently on thoughts of America, he channeled all the concern he had heard in Canada's voice, all of his brother's worry and fear, and poured it into the glass.<p>

"_I think Alfred is in trouble." Matthew whispered. "and I can't get a hold of him."_  
>It was not long before Arthur's green eyes fogged with an unnatural haze and he felt himself falling into a dream-like vision. Unruly blond hair clung to his forehead and he pitched forward towards the mirror in his hands.<br>There was a sudden, fierce, heavy numbness in his legs and a tumultuous fury rumbling in his stomach.  
>He could see a room, an office of some sort, he could feel the sensation of being somewhere warm and humid. He could see a blond figure with a familiar, stubborn cowlick and two other figures that were partially obscured but still he could hear their voices speaking in heavily accented English.<br>A sudden, sharp thought cut through his mind in a clear, recognizable American accent.  
><em>'Motherfucking Commies!'<em>  
>Russia...! Cuba...!<p>

With that realization England suddenly woke from his vision with a jolt, catching himself just in time not to drop the mirror.  
>He felt sick to his stomach. Canada had been right. Something was horribly wrong.<br>America was in trouble, America had been captured and the Cold War was in danger of turning hot very fast.  
>England clutched at his chest in an effort to calm his heart. It suddenly didn't matter at all that it was three days until the 4th of July. Everything good in their past was weighing down on England now and drowning out all the bad. That was America, his former colony, his little Alfred who had grown up into his most powerful ally.<br>Arthur took a deep breath and remembered to keep the stiff upper lip he was famous for.

With soulless mechanical motions, he snuffed out the candles, covered his mirror, wiped away the circle, and put up his things. Once again he traded cloak for coat and departed his cellar.  
>He needed time to think, to determine the best course of action.<br>Once inside his cottage he rummaged in the dusty cabinets to find his kettle and tea bags. He would make a pot of tea and collect his thoughts. He needed to get a plan together before calling Canada.  
>It was imperative that they handle this as quickly and quietly as possible. As soon as governments got involved things would degenerate all too quickly into full blown war and considering this involved America and Russia, who were both in possession of nuclear weapons, that could be disastrous for the entire world.<br>This was all assuming that Ivan had acted alone and the Russian government was not yet involved.  
>Arthur took a deep breath. If they were already involved he feared there was little they could do to rectify the situation. The American government would undoubtedly find out and when they did...<br>The island nation shuddered.

His thoughts returned to Canada. He had known, sensed, that something was wrong. Perhaps this bond he had with his brother was an avenue that could be exploited?  
><em>'steady...steady...' <em>Arthur tried to slow his thought which had begun to race ahead too fast for him. _'let's take this one step at a time. First, it's doubtful that governments are involved at this point. We'll need to keep it that way for as long as possible. That means keeping the Americans from realizing Alfred is missing. Somehow. Second, we need to get him out of Russia's custody as soon as possible.'_  
>Arthur knew too well the ruthlessness Ivan was capable of.<br>_'but how? It's not exactly easy to walk through Russia's land undetected. His own magic is extraordinarily powerful. Not to mention looking for Alfred in a country the size of Russia is literally equivalent to a needle in a haystack. In fact, that may be an understatement...'_  
>Canada.<br>Arthur realized the inevitable answer.

The solution to all of this was Canada.  
>He could impersonate his brother, pull some kind of stunt, buy them some time...<br>If he simply went in an told the American government "Hey guys I'm taking some time off don't bother looking for me." It would be believable, it would be something Alfred would do, but it would still set them in an uproar. They'd be looking for him, surely, but their minds wouldn't go immediately to Russia. They wouldn't go immediately to abduction.

On the other hand, if Canada's impersonation failed they'd be in more trouble than before.  
>He was also the natural choice to send in after Alfred. Arthur was a great believer in magic, the kind he practiced and the rest he saw at work in the world. Whatever connection the North American brother's had, it could only be a boon when it came to ferreting out information and tracking Alfred down.<br>Besides this, Russia would not be expecting an act of aggression from Canada. It was likely his attention would be focused on Arthur himself. They were both aware of the other's presence on a magical level. It was possible that Russia already knew he had been scrying. He would have his eyes on England, he would never expect Canada.

Not only that but England knew from experience the skills Canada had acquired in battle. He'd been right there beside him. During the first and second world wars Matthew had shined as a scout and sniper. His ability to move with stealth through rough, unknown, enemy terrain was simple fact and the silent precision with which he could handle his weapon was something Arthur often forgot when looking at the unassuming, modest young man. Still, it was something he knew. Something he'd seen.  
>No. If there was one man, one country, for the job then it was Matthew.<br>The only thing that was left to be determined was whether or not Arthur could live with himself if he pushed the skilled, but militarily weaker, of the twins into harms way for the sake of rescuing the other.  
>Arthur knew that if it came down to it and Matthew had to go face to face with Russia alone then he'd be at worst destroyed and at best captured.<br>Could he do that? Could he ask Matthew to go into battle alone, to find and retrieve his brother against impossible odds?  
>He would have to, he knew it, but he wouldn't let him go without help.<p>

The first thing he could do was a simple spell just to strengthen the bond between Alfred and Matthew.  
>Luckily he kept satchels of both boys hair around for occasions such as this.<br>He would create a little charm, using blessed water, wax, twine, and two of the photographs he kept tucked away from a bygone era when photography was just blooming.  
>He retrieved the photos he kept in the album in his study. One of Alfred, One of Matthew. In hurried scrawl he scratched Matthew's name on the back of Alfred's photo and Alfred's name on the back of Matthew's. Then, diving back down to his cellar for the second time that night, he fetched a pure white candle and a strand of each brother's hair. He ran both hairs through the salt water he had used early in order to bless them, he twisted the hairs together and sealed the ends with wax from the white candle so that once entwined they would not come undone.<br>He placed the hair carefully between the two photos and sealed the edges of the photographs (back to back) with wax and then rolled them like a scroll. He took red twine and wrapped it around the photos until not a single corner was left uncovered. Finally he tied off the twine with nine careful knots to secure the magic. Once this was complete he placed the twined photos carefully into a jar and stopped it with a cork. He would carry this on his person until this ordeal was over. He could've buried it or hidden it somewhere with special significance to the twins, but he felt this was the only way to be sure that Russia (should he grow suspicious of Canada) would not find and destroy the charm.

The second piece of magical help he could offer Canada was to create a talisman to offer him protection on his journey. Something that might keep him hidden from Russia's eyes (and safe from Russia's spells) and offer him a little added strength and fortitude. He could begin the spell now but he would have to finish it when he was face to face with Matthew. The situation was serious enough that they would have to meet up. This wasn't something that could just be discussed over the phone and then brushed off as one went about one's day.  
>He fetched three colors of twine. Red for power, White for purity and protection, and black to ward away evil.<br>With nimble, practiced fingers he braided the three colors together. Just like before when he'd wrapped the photos in red twin, nine knots would seal the spell.  
>He alternated sides, even knots on one end and odd on the other. The ninth knot he would save until he could secure the bracelet on Canada's wrist.<br>He recited the incantation as he went along.  
>"<em>By the knot of one, the spell is begun."<em>  
>He then switched sides and continued<br>"_By the knot of two, my words are true."_  
>He continued in the same fashion tying the ends together.<br>Odd, even, odd, even.  
>"<em>By the knot of three, it comes to me,<em>  
><em>By the knot of four, may the spell be strengthened more,<em>  
><em>By the knot of five, the spell is alive,<em>  
><em>By the knot of six, the spell is fixed,<em>  
><em>By the knot of seven, may the power through me be given,<em>  
><em>By the knot of eight, may the power within be great..."<em>  
>Here he stopped, leaving enough room on either end to secure the ninth knot when he reached Canada.<br>Standing up with a sigh he pocketed the braided twin and tucked it next to the small bottle containing the bond strengthening charm in the inner breast pocket of his coat.

Apart from magical help he'd have to tell the ladys and gents over at MI6 that Canada would be needing their full cooperation, especially of their spy rings in Russia and access to any information they had their or at home.  
>As far as Canada's cover for getting into Russia was concerned...well, it pained England to admit it, but they'd be needing France's help.<br>_'Bloody frog,' _He thought _'the last thing I want is to have him involved in this!'_  
>The less nation's who knew of this the better but England's people and Canada's were both far too suspect in Russia at the moment for their devotion to capitalism and their ties to America.<p>

France on the other hand managed to be on cordial terms with both the U.S and the Soviet Union.  
>Consequently French citizens had an easier time traveling to and from the any of the countries in the Soviet Union.<br>Simply sneaking Matthew in would not be possible. He'd need cover in order to move freely about the cities, secure lodging, and gather supplies.  
>England sighed and muttered to himself. "I suppose that Québécois streak is going to come in handy now."<br>They'd just need to procure a false French passport from Francis, hopefully the Frenchman could assist them in getting Matthew's visa approved as quickly as possible. Of course, Arthur knew that visas and visa requirements were changing constantly in the USSR. The best they could do would be to keep Matthew supplied with false papers from their spy rings once he was inside Russia and hope for the best.

If it came down to it, Arthur was sure Matthew would have no trouble incapacitating any police who gave him trouble. He just hoped it didn't come to that. They needed as little human interference as possible.

Arthur ran his hand through his hair. It was nearing midnight. He was exhausted from driving and the toll scrying had taken on him. Still, he knew there was not a moment to lose.  
>If he left immediately, driving 4 hours back to London and taking a 7 hour flight to Ottawa he could reach Matthew by 6am (Noon in London). That would give them a full day to plan and get Matthew to D.C by the 4th because no one would believe Alfred would willingly miss his own birthday party.<br>They would just have to hope that Canada was as good at fooling the Americans into believing he was America as he was at fooling the rest of the world.

Before leaving his cottage England put in a call to number 10 Downing Street to let them know he wouldn't be in over the next few days but that he would be in touch by phone and that he needed a plane ready to take him to Ottawa. They asked no questions. He was used to acting autonomously  
>and his government trusted him to act responsibly. He chose not to alert Canada that he was coming.<br>He wanted him to have the best chance of a good night's sleep possible and that wouldn't happen if he detected the worry in England's voice.

**July 2nd, 1963, 3:00 am, in the air over Russia (7pm Ottawa, Midnight London, 2hours to Moscow)**

Alfred felt a large, rough hand shaking him awake from the sleep he'd forced himself into. It was much better than being awake and aware of his situation. It was much better than listening to Russia's voice.

"Amerika~" Ivan spoke simply, his usual small smile in place. "as much as I have enjoyed entertaining you in your pajamas my friend, we will be arriving in Moscow soon and I am thinking a change of clothes is in order, da?"

"Oh yes." Alfred glared, voice heavy with sleep and his numb tongue. "Because being snatched out of my bed in the middle of the night and drug half way around the world in my boxers wasn't awkward already."

Russia giggled and sat the clothes he was holding in the seat next to Alfred. Alfred made a noise of disgust low in his throat and averted his eyes as Ivan went about dressing him.  
>He certainly took his time sliding the trousers up his legs and buttoning up the plain white shirt.<br>It brought to mind what Cuba had mentioned when handing over the jar of strange ointment.  
>Al's stomach plummeted at the thought. <em>Ivan couldn't...he wouldn't...They'd been allies once!<em>  
>While Ivan slipped Alfred's numb, heavy arms through the sleeves of a light jacket Alfred fought off the urge to panic. He assured himself that Ivan's hands hadn't been lingering. It was just his over active imagination. He'd only taken the chemical ointment out of politeness. He wasn't intending to use it.<br>He wasn't!

Alfred took a deep breath as Ivan took the seat next to him. He turned his head in the opposite direction. At least the commie had been good about leaving him to his thoughts for now at least.  
><em>'What if he...what if he does?' <em>Came a soft voice in the back of his head. Alfred had been through battle.  
>He was used to fighting, to physical pain, and he had been trained to deal with torture though it had never happened to him personally. He knew it wasn't unheard of. Countries were capable of both good and evil on par with their citizens. Still, he had never considered this, maybe because he was naïve, young, or the subject was taboo. It wasn't something the older nations talked about.<br>Alfred felt sick at the very thought. He wanted to go home. He wanted Matthew. He wanted to pretend this wasn't happening.  
>He closed his eyes and repeated like a mantra in his head <em>'Whatever happens, I'll get through it, I'll come out strong, and I'll go on, Whatever happens...'<em>

**July 1st, 1963, 9:00pm, Ottawa**

Two hours later as the plane carrying his brother was setting down on Russian soil, Matthew was sitting politely next to his boss at the symphony. Even though his physical symptoms of anxiety persisted, he kept a cool head and had learned to manage them. He sat calm and composed enjoying the rise and fall of the music and refusing to pay attention to the emotions boiling in his gut.

If Al had come up today he would've spent less of his time at these formal functions and more of it out getting piss drunk and roving from bar to bar with his brother  
>Still, he could enjoy a more sedate birthday. The music was calming and he let it carry him away.<p>

A few hours later he made his way home. It was getting close to midnight and he knew he couldn't sleep without assistance. The first thing he did upon entering his spacious apartment was to kick off his shoes in the entry and shrug off his suit jacket and throw it over the sofa. He then loosened his tie and made his way to the en suite bathroom attached to his bedroom. He rummaged around in his medicine cabinet until he found the sleeping pills he was looking for. He'd had a full supper already so he only poured himself a glass of water and threw back a few of the pills.

His little bear was already asleep at the foot of his bed when Matthew stripped and pulled back the covers. He lay awake in bed waiting for the pills to take effect.  
>First thing in the morning he could arrange for a flight to D.C he had a key to his brother's apartment and an open invitation to drop in whenever he liked. He could just let himself in, see if anything was amiss and wait for Alfred to come home. If England was correct, and he was feeling Alfred's emotions vicariously, then he would just have to wait for Alfred to show up and explain to him what was going on. He really was crap about keeping national secrets...not that he needed to with Matthew.<br>The idea that Alfred could've been abducted didn't even cross his mind. That particular idea was filed away in his brain on a short list of things he assumed to be absolutely impossible.

When the drugs finally kicked in and helped him to drift into an unnatural sleep, he was seized almost immediately by an unnatural dream.

_He was like a wolf, stark and gaunt against the horizon. His eyes were wild, violet, and luminescent_  
><em>against the black cloth of the night.<em>  
><em>This land was not so unfamiliar, not so inhospitable to him as it might have been to another. There <em>_was nothing foreign to him about taiga or tundra._  
><em>He knew this was not home, however, he could feel the difference in the soil beneath him and in the air that surrounded him.<em>  
><em>He prowled the edges of his mind, heightened, aware, as he moved with ease through enemy terrain.<em>  
><em>He searched for a familiar scent among a thousand foreign smells.<em>  
><em>A ripple of anger move through him, raising his hackles. Someone had had the gall to take his mate, to come into their territory, into their den and take what was his, what had been his for years, practically from birth, what was marked with the signs and scents of him as intrinsically as he was marked in return.<em>  
><em>His mate, his only, his one love, the one he was entwined with, the one who left heat coiled under the vulnerable skin of his soft, exposed stomach.<em>  
><em>The one who had taken him and who he had taken in return again and again until their borders blurred to nothingness and he nuzzled close to him whimpering softly his love with all the tenderness of a pup was gone.<em>  
><em>The fury this invoked in him coursed through him and turned nimble, long, elegant, trigger happy fingers into ravenous claws.<em>  
><em>He would have what was his or he would destroy himself in the process.<em>

He was snapped awake, disoriented and flecked with cool sweat, by the simultaneous blaring of his alarm and the ringing of his phone.


	4. Something New

**The Rival North**

**Chapter 4: Something New**

Matthew simultaneously slammed one hand on his alarm and reached for the phone on his bedside table. He didn't even note what time it was. he just did his best not to sound sleepy.  
>"Good morning. Canada speaking. How may I help you?"<br>He sat up in surprise when England answered.  
>"Canada, I'm in Ottawa at the airport. I'll be taking a taxi to your apartment shortly. Forgive the unexpected intrusion but we have grave matters to discuss."<br>Matthew felt himself awaken fully at the words. "Oh! oh, of course, is everything alright?"  
>"We'll discuss it fully when I get there."<br>England wanted to tell him not to get himself worked up but he couldn't bring himself to be misleading.  
>When Matthew hung up the phone he hurried to get out of bed and go through his morning routine.<p>

The heat of the shower worked to soothe his stiff muscles but did nothing to wash away the discomfort the memories of his dreams had left.  
>He felt a churning in his stomach, a kind of deep unrest, as if something inside him was waking up from a very long sleep.<br>He showered quickly and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist, he pushed damp blond curls back and washed his face.  
>He barely had time to dress in simple slacks and a button down and put the kettle on before the ringing of the doorbell announced Arthur's arrival.<p>

"England," Canada greeted his older brother with a smile. "please, come in."  
>Arthur's face showed his lack of sleep in the bags under his eyes and the wild disorder of his choppy blond hair.<br>"Thank you for having me on such short notice." Arthur handed Matthew his coat and flexed his shoulders to shake off some of the tension.  
>"It's no trouble." Matthew hung the coat and followed Arthur into the living room. "tea should be ready any moment."<br>"Ah," Arthur sunk into an arm chair. "good lad."

At that moment the kettle sounded and Matthew excused himself to prepare a service.  
>He didn't have to be told that whatever had brought England out here in a rush had to do with<br>America, he knew it could be nothing else.

He wanted it to be something good. He wanted Arthur to tell him that Alfred had showed up at his embassy in London or called from some outpost in Europe to let him know that he'd been called away on business but Matthew knew that wasn't going to happen. It didn't even make sense. He could search his brain and not come up with a single excuse for Alfred's disappearance. Besides, if Alfred had been in contact with Arthur he could've just as easily called Matthew.

Matthew couldn't control the shaking of his hands as he placed the tea cups on a tray.

He took a breath and a moment to steady himself before returning to the living room and taking his seat across from England.

Arthur had spent his entire plane ride trying to decide how he should approach Canada. He was well aware how skeptical the younger nations were about his magic and truthfully he had no hard proof that what he'd seen was true. He'd simply have to hope that Canada would take him at his word.

Arthur took a long relaxing drink of the tea Matthew had made. When the teacup next met the saucer he turned to his former colony and began to explain.

"Let me get straight to the point, Canada, after you expressed your concerns to me yesterday I went to my cottage to do a bit of scrying and I can confirm your fears are more than valid."

Canada felt a sudden weakness at the words and was glad he was sitting. Never the less, he kept his composure. "And...and what exactly is scrying?"

England pushed stray hair from his eyes. "Ah, yes, you wouldn't know, would you? Scrying is a kind of divination that allows you to peer into events unfolding around the world through the use of..." England paused. He hated to use cliched terms that he knew would bring Canada's mind straight to Disney and invoke a prejudice that would work to discredit him. "Well, _magic mirrors._"

Canada suprised him by his stoic response. The other nation didn't smirk or belittle him but instead was clutching his teacup with white knuckled fingers and paying England his full attention.

"All right." Canada nodded his understanding, eager for England to go on.

One prominent brow was raised in response. "What? No skepticism?"

Canada shook his head. "I don't care how you know what you know, whether you got the information from magic mirrors or a pool of frog's blood or whatever doesn't matter to me. Look, England, it comes down to this...I trust you and after what's been happening to me these past few days I'm willing to believe anything."

England nodded, feeling a knot of stress come undone. "Good. Good. I won't beat around the bush then. I saw America being held by Russia and Cuba. The only thing I can think is that they've kidnapped him in an attempt to sway politics through personal coercion. It's all too common among our kind I'm afraid though the instances of it have dwindled with the coming of more _civilized_times. It goes without saying we cannot allow Russia to succeed both for personal and political reasons."

Canada's reaction was unthinking, instantaneous. "That's not possible!"

No one could touch his brother. No one. America had been the first colony to ever successfully rebel against their empire, he was strong, impossibly strong, a superpower, one of only two...  
>It was possible Russia could've overpowered him but the words England had said yesterday<br>on the phone came back to him:

"_Don't waste your time worrying about America. There's no one on earth except for Russia who can challenge his strength and if they were going head to head you'd be feeling a lot more than a little numbness on your arm and the whole world would know about it."_

Something just didn't add up.

England shook his head with a sad smile. "I thought you were willing to believe anything?"

He was surprised when he was met with a glare in return. "What do you know?" Canada snapped. "You're talking nonsense! You said it yourself yesterday if America and Russia were going head to head we'd all know! It would take all of Russia's force to subdue America. If I were really feeling vicarious pain it would be more than just a pin prick!"

Canada had stood and was pacing the floor in front of England.  
>"How, eh? Answer me that! How could he have taken him?"<p>

While Canada picked at his arms remembering his dream from the night before, England's mind had taken hold of something Canada had said.

"A pin prick, you say?" He mumbled. "A pin prick..."

"Ridiculous!" Canada scoffed. He didn't know what he'd expected to hear but he hadn't anticipated this violent mood swing. '_What did you expect?' _He snapped at himself  
>'<em>What did you think he'd say? You knew it had to be something like this deep down you knew!'<em>

He was startled from his pacing by a decisive English voice.  
>"Canada! Calm down!"<p>

He turned slowly to face England who had not moved from his spot. The green eyed Brit leveled him with a serious stare. "I do not know for certain how Russia subdued America but from the feelings you've described of numbness and stabbing sensations it is possible he has him under a sedative of some kind. What I do know is we have to keep our wits about us and come up with a plan."

Canada nodded mutely and slumped back into his chair. A plan, right, a plan. They'd get him back.

Arthur took another sip of tea and tapped his fingers on the glass as he went on.  
>"A few things are obvious. First, we cannot let this get out. That means we have to act quickly and we can't make a scene. People will notice, governments will become suspicious, if a group of us suddenly mobilize on our own. Not to mention it would be akin to firing a warning shot to let Russia know we're coming. No," He paused and gave Matthew a meaningful glance. "this is a one man job."<p>

Arthur could not articulate the guilt, the responsibility, he felt at asking his former colony to do this. He didn't even attempt to explain himself, he just internalized it as he did so many things, and prayed Matthew would be able to read his feeling in his actions over time.

Arthur expected trepidation, Arthur expected fear, nervousness, uncertainty, and while Matthew was feeling all of those things, he would've been far more agitated by leaving the job in anyone else's hands.

He folded his hands, straightened his back, tried not to think of the overwhelming might of the Soviet Union and stated simply "Tell me what I need to do."

"Good." Arthur hid his surprise and worry. "You'll do it, then?"

Matthew's reaction of displeasure at Arthur's need for assurance was a minute crinkling of his nose and slight recoil. "Obviously."

'_I wouldn't trust him to anyone else.'_

"Well, If it comes to war, I'll be there, you know that, but until the American government asks for aid there's not much I can do. If anyone is to find him before his abduction causes world war three, then it has to be you." Arthur reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way lad, but you're quite forgettable. That makes you perfect for espionage and rescues requiring stealth."

"Espionage?" Matthew asked.

Arthur smiled a wry smile. "You know what needs to be done. Your brother has many enemies but they all tend to answer to one man. One very clever man. You'll need to do some digging to find your brother I don't doubt."

"_Russia._" Matthew whispered and Arthur nodded. Matthew had never felt any serious animosity towards the other country before. They were opposites politically, they stood at different ends of a cold war, but Matthew knew all such things were transient. Now, however, now, things were personal.

"I'll give your information to the gents over at MI6." Arthur went on. " If you ever need help, you'll have it. Besides, you have your own people. I won't tell you that retrieving him will be easy because it won't but we both have extremely competent spy rings through out the Soviet Union. You'll be able to exploit those services in your hunt. It's only a shame we can't tap into the American's extensive networks but we really must keep them in the dark as long as possible."

Arthur's look grew cold "There are some things our governments do with out us and some things we do without our governments and in the latter case it's best we nations handle it on a personal level. You understand, I trust?"

Matthew drew himself up to his full and considerable height. What Arthur was telling him to do could be considered little more than suicide but he refused to be daunted.  
>"I do."<p>

The look in Arthur's eyes softened and he closed the space between them and took hold of Matthew's arm.

"No unnecessary risks. Get in, get him, and get out. The world is counting on you, Matthew. You're working against a ticking clock. Once the Americans realize Alfred is missing they will immediately suspect the Russians and god help us all if they make up their minds on the matter. If Ivan is working without his government's authorization than any attempts by the Americans to barter will fail because Moscow isn't going to know what the hell they're talking about. Tensions will escalate and eventually someone will press the button and we all perish in nuclear winter. So," Arthur laughed "no pressure boy, but if you do this then for god's sake do it right."

Matthew felt his cool facade slip a little at Arthur's words as the full weight of what was being asked of him became clear to him for the first time. Up until now he had been unable to look at the full picture, to think beyond his gut instinct to defend his lover, only now did he realize the scope of their problem.

"Okay...okay..." He took a deep breath. "let's work through this step by step. This could be a lengthy process." God, he hoped it wouldn't be. "The Americans will notice when Alfred doesn't come into work. They'll immediately suspect Russia. We've got to do something to buy time."

Arthur nodded. "I'd thought of that. No offense meant, Canada, but you are a dead ringer for your brother. You could go into his office, demand leave from work."  
>Canada shook his head. "No. It'll never work. You may not see it as such but Alfred is really very responsible when it comes to his job. He would never just skip out of work. Especially not during such a tense time."<p>

England's eyes widen slightly at Canada's conviction. "Very well then. What do you propose?"

Canada lowered his head in thought. It's true that America, or rather he acting the part of America, would have to give the American government sufficient reason both to grant him leave and not to suspect anything was amiss.

They had to get leave, it was the only way, even if someone else went in search of Alfred, Matthew couldn't keep up the charade of pretending to be his brother. He knew Alfred's signature and could possibly forge it if he had to but the legal consequences of that were dire and Matthew was not morally comfortable with the idea of performing his brother's job for him, even in a time of such need. Not to mention balancing his own workload in addition to his brother's would be a daunting task. He could play America for a day perhaps but to keep up two high profile lives would be asking too much. Additionally, he could never be content sitting back playing the decoy while another nation was on the ground doing the leg work. He wanted to handle this himself.

But how? It simply wasn't believable for Alfred to just skip off work. The only times he had ever done that was when he was researching... a sudden idea came to Matthew...The only times Alfred had ever skipped off work was when he was doing research for one of his new plans.

It would be risky but it just might work. If he could pass himself off for Alfred and present a convincing enough argument for why his taking leave for research was in the best interest of the country then he might be able to secure leave. He'd have to submit fraudulent progress reports but Matthew felt much more comfortable doing that then he would fraudulently signing off on American laws.

He knew that Alfred kept a file full of his latest ideas and would-be inventions. He could go to New York first. If the file was still in the desk in the office there then he would know Alfred had never made it back to D.C. if it was gone he could go to D.C and look for clues there. Either way he'd need to find Alfred's clothes and make all the necessary appearances on the 4th and then come up with a pitch a convincing reason why he had to take time off work on the 5th.

It would kill him to waste that time when all he wanted to do was fly to Russia immediately but he forced his head to master his rebellious heart. They had to tie up every loose end or their plans could all come raveling apart at the seams. He knew that.

"I have a plan." He finally looked up at England. "It needs work but I'll try to come up with a convincing project for him to leave on to get him out of work. I'll be far too busy to send them false progress when I'm actually on the ground. It would be impractical trying to get letters out of Russia anyway. If my plan works I'll write several fake letters and give them to you. I'm sure you have people who can make sure they get sent from anywhere in the world we need them to be. If he receives any return correspondence you'll need to be monitoring that. Do you feel comfortable impersonating him in writing, yourself? Whatever plan I come up with I'll make sure it takes him somewhere remote so Washington won't try to contact him by phone..."

England nodded. It was dangerous, it was imperfect, but he could think of nothing else. "Of course. I have a few old letters from him lying around. I'm sure I can pick up the lingo and thanks to the typewriter his script won't be necessary."

"All right," Canada wrung his hands. "Let's recap. I've got to get to N.Y..." He realized England wasn't aware of that stage and slowed down. "Er, I'm going to go to N.Y because that's where he was last to the best of my knowledge. I'll check the apartment then head to D.C. and do what has to be done. If I can fool the Americans, what then? I can't exactly just fly into Russia no questions asked."

England nodded and stood up. This was the part of the plan he was certain of. "I'll fly to France immediately. I should be able to get to Paris by tonight. I'll discuss getting a French passport for you from Francis. No one outside the Union is free from suspicion but you may be a little safer passing yourself off as French. Not to mention the Russian expatriate community in Paris has given birth to a nice little underground market for false visas. Russia has been bringing in foreign engineers to advise on the pipelines going in across the country. I've thought it all out. With France's help we'll pass you off as a French engineer strictly for the purposes of getting you into the country."

England put his hand on Matthew shoulder. "The minute you're in, though, that's when you need to get completely off the radar. Travel as independently as you can. Do not let yourself be stopped and questioned by the police. If anyone suspects you, incapacitate them. Make use of our spy rings but be wary there are always double agents, you know that."

England sighed. "I wish I could give you some perfect formula for getting this job done, Matthew,  
>truly I do but you know I can't. You're just going to have to do your best. You were a fine scout during the Great War. You've always been good at reconnaissance. I have faith in you."<p>

Matthew stood as well and offered Arthur a small smile. "Thank you. I'm going to leave for New York as soon as possible. There's a lot that must be done. I'll meet you in Paris on the 6th?"

"Yes," England nodded. All he wanted to do was curl up to sleep but he'd have to try to rest on the plane. There was simply no time to waste. "but before I go there's one last thing."

"Hmm?" Canada looked on as England pulled a red, white, and black braid of twine from one of his pockets.

A rosy flush colored Arthur's cheeks as he gestured for Matthew's wrist which the other nation offered with some confusion.

"This is just a little charm I made. It should offer you some protection and keep you safe from Russia's own magic."

"Oh." was all Canada could think to say in reply as he watched England secure the band around his wrist with a knot and whisper, to Canada's bafflement, the final words of the spell he had begun to weave around the bracelet before leaving his homeland yesterday.

"_By the knot of nine, may the thing I wish for be mine. The spell is cast. So Mote It Be "_

Blushing furiously Arthur cleared his throat and quickly stood back as soon as the bracelet was secure.

"Well I'll uh I'll just be off I suppose..."

Matthew knew the older nation's discomfort in anything that could be considered an emotionally charged situation but he refused to let him go so simply.

He clasped the shorter nation's hand and held it between both his own. "Thank you, Arthur, for all your help."

England huffed and turned a beet red. "Ah it's nothing. Don't be silly. Let's just focus on getting the job done, shall we?"

He fumbled toward the entry and hastily put on his coat.

"I'm off to Paris to break the news to that bloody frog. I'll call you at America's D.C apartment on the evening of the 5th just to ensure the plan is going ahead. Listen," He shook a finger in Canada's direction. "The less who know about this the better. I wouldn't even cut in the damn Frenchman if I didn't have to."

"I'm not exactly going to announce it to the world." Canada arched a brow.

Their goodbyes were brief and the minute England closed the door behind him Canada went to his knees.

Miles away from the brother who was on his knees in the entry of his Ottawa apartment trying to regain the strength that had suddenly gone out of him the minute he was alone, America was riding in a car next to his nemesis, bound by poison, and leaving the old world he loved for one that was new and dangerous.

They hadn't stayed even a day in Moscow. The first thing Russia had done was to blindfold him and begin to transport him to a safe house far from the city. America waited with a mounting sense of dread and anticipation for when and where the car would stop.


	5. He Loves Me

**The Rival North**

**A/N: ****Thanks so much for reading/reviewing.**

**Chapter 5: He Loves Me**

**July 2nd, 1963, 10:45 am, Ottawa**

Canada's moment of weakness did not last long. He took solace in the thought of action. Keeping his muscles in motion calmed him. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins washed away the crushing despair that tried to build up like plaque around his arteries to constrict movement and clot progress.

Something he had failed to consider when talking to England was how to handle his own government.

It was a stressful time for his nation and the Prime Minister would not appreciate him taking a leave of absence.

Canada ran a hand through his hair. All he wanted to do was fly to Russia immediately but there was so much to do first. So many little bureaucratic details to take care of, a false identity to arrange, documents to forge.

He toyed with the bracelet Arthur had given him and pined for Alfred. He didn't want to think about what Al could be going through right now while he was stuck making tedious preparations for his departure.

How could he get his boss to understand? He was essentially abandoning his post. He couldn't give him details. He couldn't explain the situation. It wouldn't be safe. The minute humans became involved they were that much closer to war. Hopefully his boss would respect his need for privacy and autonomy. Hopefully he would put faith in his character and trust that he would never ask him for leave without an important cause. Diplomatic meetings would have to be canceled, high level laws requiring his signature could be stalled for months, there were consequences when a country ceased to perform his or her duties. Essential functions would go on, life could continue more or less normally, but not without added strain to the government.

What it came down to was that his boss would have to understand because he was going regardless.

He made his way to his bedroom and grabbed his overnight bag. He'd been planning to leave for the States anyway so everything was already packed. He knew his boss's schedule by heart. He could catch him over his lunch break and demand a private audience.

**July 2nd, 1963, 5:45pm , Russia **

Russia had never intended to drive all the way to the safehouse. His country was vast and he intended to take America far away from his capital city. He had taken the car and blindfolded America while they were leaving the city simply as a precaution. He doubted America would ever have a chance to escape but he wanted to be cautious. If he blindfolded him and drove to a remote train station then by the time they boarded America would have no idea where they were or what direction they were heading.

His safehouse was remote but not nearly as remote as he would've liked. Unfortunately, he still needed a phone in order to carry on with his job. He had informed his boss that he needed time away from the city for personal matters. He would have at least three uninterrupted weeks to break his new friend in before he would have to consider moving to a location closer to Moscow. It wasn't as much time as he would've liked but it would do; There were plenty of ways to keep his captive secured once they moved back to the capital.

America was uncharacteristically silent in the seat beside him and Russia found himself missing the standard barbs. He assured himself that America's usual spirit would return once this ordeal was over.

It wasn't that Russia took pleasure in what he had to do, it was simply that the ends justified the means.

Given time, America would come to understand this.

They would board the Trans-Siberian a few stops from Moscow. Russia had arranged for a private boxcar that would be monitored by guards as they traveled. A few rubles and his government credentials ensured no questions were asked.

His safehouse in the Northern Urals was notoriously difficult to reach. It could be found nestled in a barren expanse of mountain between Mt. Pay-Yer and Mt. Narodnaya, the latter of which held the highest peak in the Urals. The rough arctic terrain was impossible to cross except by air. When they reached the closest train station, Ivan would transport Alfred, under cover of darkness, to the hanger where he kept one of his state helicopters. To maintain as much secrecy as possible, and to retain the use of the helicopter for further trips, he would fly them to the safehouse personally.

Ivan never felt as secure as he did in the most remote reaches of his land. The closest point of civilization to his safehouse was Vorkuta, location of one of the most infamous camps in the GULAG system.

As Ivan drove, musing to himself about their destination, Alfred kept himself occupied with the maddening exercise of trying to move his toes. He knew by now that the effort was in vain but there was something inside him, some stubborn streak, that would not allow him to stop.

**July 2nd, 1963, 12:30pm, Ottawa **

Canada straightened his tie as he let the door of the Prime Minister's office swing shut behind him. That conversation had not exactly gone well. Having to tell his boss he needed to leave his post for an unknown amount of time, might not be in touch, and really couldn't give him any information about it, was bad enough but the situation was compounded by the fact that his boss was new to the position of Prime Minister, having only been serving as such since April.

In part this worked to Canada's advantage that his boss had not known him long because of this he was still in some awe of the superficially young man who personified his country.

Being by nature a responsible and honest man, it irked him to leave when so many new laws and proposals needed his attention and even more so that he had to pull rank to leave because he could not give a frank reason for his absence.

He was strengthened by the knowledge that what he was doing was not only right but necessary. If he had to lose some face with his new boss for it, well who gave a damn? He was prepared to sacrifice more than his reputation.

He had told his boss he needed to time to attend to urgent personal matters. There had been a round of rather awkward questioning after this statement but Canada had held to England's advice; He gave away no hints as to the true cause of his departure.

Canada was well aware that his own government may be watching him now, certainly not for any nefarious purpose, but because he's personal safety was one of their chief concerns. He retained a high level of independence but he wasn't naïve enough to believe his own people wouldn't keep tabs on him when his behavior became suspicious.

He made a mental note to avoid accessing his own spy rings when he reached Russia. He'd have to rely heavily on England's people. If his own government found out he was in Russia, there would be an uproar, doubly so if they found out why.

His stomach plummeted with that last thought.

_Alfred._

Where was he? Was he hurt? How on earth was Russia managing to hold him?

Matthew could hardly stand to contemplate the questions he was determined to find the answers to.

He had carried a small, inconspicuous, overnight bag with him and he had made sure there was plenty of food in the apartment for his little bear and so he set out for the airport without a backwards glance.

His heart beat erratically in his chest. The memory of Alfred's New York City apartment as it had been on his last visit played vividly in his mind. The smell of the dinner he had cooked lingered in the air, Alfred's records scattered across the living room floor from where he had searched for just the right one to play, the windows open to let in a fresh summer breeze.

He hoped a silly hope that he would find it just as he'd left it. That he would walk in to the sound of the Beatles playing and see Alfred saunter out of the kitchen to greet him, smiling brightly and warning him not to let England know he liked his music. As if England didn't already know.

_'It's not going to happen. It's not going to be like that and you know it.' _

He scolded himself but could not kill his desperate, wordless prayers that it would be.

**July 2nd, 1963, 10:00 pm, Russia **

Even with the blindfold robbing him of his sight Alfred could tell he was being moved from the car to a train. He could hear people speaking softly in Russian close by and the louder sound of the trains farther away. The feeling of Russia's arms was uncomfortably familiar now. All Alfred wanted was to be able to walk to his own fate, however miserable, and not to be carried like a child. He would rather be marched like a soldier to execution than to lay limply in the arms of his executioner.

He reminded himself to remain calm. He reminded himself of the lessons he had learned from the history of other, much older, nations. Whatever awaited him he would get through it. He knew others had suffered worse. Including, he thought with a slight shiver, Russia himself.

The polarization of their two countries had driven them both mad. It had driven them to paranoia, to amassing weapons of devastating power, to tearing the world in two. Alfred had been preparing himself for years for the possibility that he would have to fight Ivan. He didn't know what lay in store for him but he would face it and, he assured himself like a mantra, he would come through it.

Lost in his thoughts, Alfred had hardly noticed as he was moved across the platform and into the private train compartment. He only woke from his reflections when he felt Ivan set him down on the soft cushioned seat.

"It is a shame," the Russian mused as he removed Alfred's blindfold and pulled down the shade over the compartment window. "We have a long ride and you will be missing a beautiful view when the morning comes."

Ivan sat across from him and regarded his captive with pensive violet eyes.

"Perhaps, when it is safe, I will take you to see all of my country, when you have come to the correct way of thinking."

Alfred scoffed and turned his head away, preferring to stare at the wall. "Don't count on it."

Ivan fiddled with the tin of syringes in his pocket and kept a careful eye on his watch counting down the time until midnight and Alfred's next injection. He left the American to his stubborn silence.

**July 2nd, 1963, 1:30pm, New York City**

Matthew's hands didn't shake as he inserted the key into the lock on his brother's door but the thin piece of metal suddenly felt heavy in his hand as every muscle in his body went weak, rebelled, and recoiled from the prospect of opening the door.

It did look very much as he had left it in the early evening but a few days ago. In the living room Alfred's records were still littered on the floor where he hadn't bothered to clean them up. In the kitchen Matthew could see the peels of the potatoes he'd prepared for their dinner rotting in the trash.

He moved through every room with the unnatural silence of the place weighing down on him.

It told him, more than anything, that his vibrant, loud, enthusiastic Alfred was not here.

He moved down the hall, senses fully alert, the thin golden hairs on the back of his neck raised.

His violet eyes swept from corner to corner and up and down every wall like a wolf trying to single out a weakness in its prey.

Everything was static, exactly as Alfred had left it, barely touched. His tooth brush had been left carelessly by the sink. The towels in the hamper waiting to be washed were starting to mildew.

Finally, there was only one room left. The bedroom.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar already and Matthew could see the afternoon light pouring in through the window.

He barely registered moving down the hall, or pushing the door open, the sight that greeted him on entering the room where he had spent so many happy nights chased all of that from his mind.

The first thing he noticed was the unmade bed, pillows flung about, and sheets crumpled and shoved unnaturally aside. The hurricane of sheets, twisted, tangled and funneling off the bed led his eyes downward.

Alfred's clothes were on the floor carelessly thrown aside in the way he always undressed before bed.

In his haste to sleep he would rip them off, not even bothering to throw them in the hamper. That was a task for the next morning. A task his brother had obviously never gotten to complete.

The words Alfred had spoken the night he'd left came back to haunt him.

_"Work has to come first, love." Matthew reminded him. "What would your people think if they knew you were wasting time giving me puppy dog eyes when you should be reading your briefings?"_

_Alfred sighed and released his northern brother. "I know I just wish you could stay one more night."_

"_Oh. Oh god._" the reality of what had happened hit Matthew then and hit him horribly. He could no longer take refuge in the belief that he would be proven wrong, in the hope that England's magic was nothing but superstition and folly. The proof was right there before him. Alfred had been taken in the night.

He crouched and let his hands run over the crinkled blue jeans, the well worn white tee-shirt, and come to rest on the bomber jacket Alfred seemed to manage to wear in all weather. Matthew's finger tips trembled over the black fur around the collar. He was almost afraid to disturb the scene he had found, afraid to touch it, seized with an irrational fear that if he did it would burn him.

He wasn't aware of his own quiet chanting of his brother's name as he finally got up the courage to close his fingers around the beloved bomber jacket. How many times had he buried his face in that

fur and inhaled the scent of it, of well worn leather, and most of all of _Alfred_?

The tears he had so stoically held in came out as he brought that jacket to his face. The scent of his southern twin lingered, invading his nose, and inflaming his memories.

The tears flowed, for how long he didn't know, he allowed grief to wrack his body until finally that grief gave way to anger.

He lay at the scene of the crime, his cheeks stained with tears, violet eyes puffy and swollen, white knuckled hands clutching the black fur collar of his brother's jacket.

His heart, shaken with sadness and shivering against his ribs, remembered the strength there was in love and hardened itself preparing for revenge; It beat a war like tattoo against his chest, a signal to its soldier.

Matthew drew himself up, biting his bottom lip until he tasted a metallic tang, all he could see was Russia's quietly smiling face and narrowed violet eyes.

_'How dare he...how dare he...' _Matthew's thoughts weren't quite coherent as hot blood coursed quickly through his veins and blinded him to anything but his rage. _'lay a hand on my America!'_

He didn't notice the way he'd begun slamming his fists into the wall until his knuckles had stained the white paint red and he was ready to collapse from exhaustion.


	6. He Loves Me Not

**The Rival North**

**Chapter 6: He Loves Me Not**

**July 3rd, 1963, 1:00am, Rural Russia**

Alfred stared at the plate of food that had been set in front of him. The train tracks rumbled underneath his feet and his stomach growled in response. It was a difficult decision to make and, judging from the look on his face, Ivan knew exactly what he was contemplating. Be stubborn and refuse to eat out of pride and rebellion or eat in the hopes that keeping up his strength would help him when he finally had the opportunity to escape? The latter was probably more logical.

Alfred had no fear that the food would be tampered with, after all, Ivan made no secret of his poisoning methods. Ivan had no reason to be so covert. Alfred still tried no to let any of his pleasure or relief show in his face when he first tried the meat filled dumplings. They were heavenly after hours and hours of travel on an empty stomach.

Alfred reassured himself that this was not a defeat but a wise decision. If he was well fed he would be in a better place both mentally and physically.

"Do you like them, Amerika?" Ivan asked with a characteristic childish hopefulness in his voice.

Alfred shrugged. It wasn't resignation, he simply knew he needed to pick his battles. This was good enough for Ivan who relaxed backwards into his seat, violet eyes never leaving Alfred's face, and whistled softly to pass the time.

The world was changing. New nations were growing up in gentler times than their elders had ever known but still war persisted. The means changed but the method remained the same. Outside of the train window the blackness of night whirred by unbroken, blotting out the Siberian landscape.

Ivan let his eyes drift away from his captive and took to staring out into the darkness. He was remembering those early years under the brutal thumb of a foreign power. He remembered also his rise to prominence as a great empire and the bloody end that empire had come to. No, nations had not changed so much, though their reasons for war and conquest might.

Ivan pulled out one of the cigars Cuba had sent with him and lit it casually not noticing the wariness that showed in Alfred's face as he did so.

For his part, Alfred pushed away his empty dish and rested his head against the wall of their compartment. Ivan had given him his first injection of the day only an hour ago at midnight. Consequently he was feeling dizzy and a bit queasy as the drug worked its way through his body.

He mentally counted the hours that had passed. Tomorrow was his birthday. If he didn't show up his government would know something was wrong. Could Ivan really have been so careless? Surely, he wasn't mad enough to be angling for a war. _' He must've taken some kind of precaution,' _Alfred wondered. _'He knows he has as much to lose by going to war as I do.'_

He would've given anything to know what was going on at home. Matthew would've noticed he was gone. Did he suspect foul play? Had he contacted anyone? Arthur, perhaps, or Francis? What would they do if he did? What _could_ they do? Alerting their governments meant war but what could they do alone?

He wanted to take care of his friends. He could feel the instinctive protective urge itching under his skin, unable to be expressed. When he thought of Matthew it became almost unbearable.

He thought of Matthew's tall frame, his broad shoulders, and pale skin. He thought of the quiet smile he almost always wore on his face, of his gentle demeanor, and soft voice. Everything about Matthew's presence calmed him. Except for now, when the memory of it survived as a reminder of how much he had..._NO._ He stopped himself. _Not what you've lost, what you stand to lose_. He scolded himself. He refused to think as if Ivan had already won.

He would win. He had to. He could never leave Matthew vulnerable. If Matthew was hurt because of his weakness or his failures, the guilt would consume him. He had to protect him. Alfred had always felt a certain sense of responsibility for his brother.

This was partly because Al was more aware of the trouble he got Matthew into than Matthew would ever know and partly because Alfred would feel a sense of responsibility toward anyone he loved.

Alfred knew that he could sometimes be like a bull in a china shop when it came to Matthew's life but he always did his best to clean up after himself. And if anyone else hurt Matthew? Well then god help them.

Things looked bleak and were only getting worse but Alfred reminded himself that if he kept his emotion in check and his head clear then he would eventually find the loose bar in the cage Ivan was constructing around him.

_'May as well try to sleep.' _He thought. _'There's nothing to do now. Save your strength.' _

He rested his head against the hard wall of the train compartment and tried to pretend it was Matthew's smooth, muscular chest. If he tried hard enough he could convince himself that the gentle rumbling of the train was Matthew's deep, calming breath.

It was hard to sleep when he was so high strung but the effects of the drug exhausted as well as paralyzed him so his body eventually gave in to his mind's demands.

Across from him, Ivan took a long puff on his Cuban cigar and watched the emotions play across Alfred's sleeping face.

His violet eyes were impassive as Russia's thoughts were anything but. Soon they would arrive at the safe house. This had really been almost too easy; it had been too easy to infiltrate his powerful rival's home, take him from it, and across the ocean into Ivan's own land.

Russia blew a ring of cool blue smoke, his eyes roving over the sleeping man across from him. Amerika was young and naïve. He had so much power and yet he had not had to gain it in the way Ivan had, with long centuries of suffering and cunning to reach the top. This naïveté must have been what had made Alfred feel he could sleep with the window open, made him think no one would ever find a way around that legendary strength.

Ivan paused, the cigar resting in between his fingers. Though there were so many differences between their cultures, he and Alfred were not really so disparate. Amerika was hardly an innocent… Russia inhaled the smoke from the gift his comrade had given him as his thoughts continued.

Though the rest of the world would undoubtably cast him in a villainous light, Ivan knew what he was doing was justifiable. Alfred clearly cared for his people, clearly wanted what was best for them. He spoke of democracy and equality, these Ivan held to be essential as well as the foundations of true Communism, only Alfred being so much younger could not see that he was going about things all wrong. Russia closed his eyes for a moment and envisioned the world he would create with Amerika at his side.

He had simply to wash away Alfred's misconceptions, to cut the ties that bound him to his Western world. Ivan would replace Amerika's allies and take him by the hand into a bright, red, future.

In due time, the others would follow, seeing the follies of the free market and how strong the Communist cause had become. How strong it _would_ become once Amerika was fully and willingly, in his grasp.

A sudden sound brought Ivan from his fantasy.

Alfred had mumbled, which was all he could do as the drugs took their course; it had sounded almost like he'd tried to say "Matt"

Russia's violet eyes narrowed dangerously as he snuffed out the cigar.

_Canada. _This was the first tie he would have to sever. The Russian's heart sped as his anger that such an inconsequential nation could be such a threat to his plan. Alfred must forget about 'his Mattie'. Ivan recalled the way in which he'd taken America from his home; how before fully waking, the blue eyed man's first assumption was that he was his love, returning to bed.

Russia tapped the butt of the spent cigar and thought of the other gift Cuba had given him.

The bond between the two North American nations was deep and would be difficult to break, but once broken, Ivan knew Alfred's ties to the rest of the world would crumble.

"Da", Ivan whispered the word to himself more than to the sleeping Amerika. He would wash away the memories of Canada's touch; he would sow doubt in Alfred's mind and he would put guilt in his heart.

It may seem cruel to others, and Russia knew it would; but this was simply a means to a greater end. One that would benefit all nations of the Earth, and eventually all would understand and thank him for showing them the way.

**July 2nd, 1963, 2:00pm, New York City **

Matthew had reigned in his emotions and begun preparing for his departure to D.C.

There was a mournful sadness in his movements as he went around Alfred's apartment cleaning up the mess. He threw out the trash that still held evidence of their last dinner together and made the bed that was torn apart by his beloved's struggle.

_'When I get back with Alfred he won't want to see it like this.'_ Matthew said to himself. _'When I get back with Alfred. When I get back with Alfred.'_ He repeated. _'When.' _

He bundled up Alfred's favorite clothes, his bomber jacket and well-worn tan uniform, and stopped to check himself in Alfred's bedroom mirror. He tweaked his signature curl and sighed.

"We'll have to do something with you." He murmured as he thought about how he would spend the coming day in D.C preparing his impersonation. He could pin his curl down somehow but he'd have to cut a cowlick into his hair. It wasn't the looks he was worried about, however, it was the mannerisms.

Alfred was always so much louder and more exuberant than he was and never more so than on his birthday.

It still killed Matthew not to be flying out to Russia immediately but he knew that was more than impractical; It was impossible.

He had to convince the Americans he was Alfred. It was absolutely necessary to keep them from growing suspicious. He was always being mistaken for Alfred but he had never tried to fool anyone before. He'd certainly never tried it on his brother's own boss.

He had only one day to prepare a convincing argument for why he (or rather, Alfred) needed time off work. He'd have to rely on his knowledge of Alfred and his affectations in order to sell it.


	7. Marigold and Mallow

**A/N: To everyone who has taken the time to read/review, thank you! The new chapter title system corresponds to Victorian flower language. I won't be keeping it for the entire fic but for a few chapters. **

**School is really taking it out on me right now which is why updates have been infrequent. I regret starting this during the school year but I guess now I know better. I will do my best to update as soon as possible. **

**I'm sorry if there are some weird incongruities with ages in the flashbacks here. I try to make it vague what age they are in the first flashback because canonically Matt and Al were portrayed as really young when Arthur first brought Matt to meet Al but that doesn't really make sense to me since Canada was only acquired by Britain in the 1760s so...wouldn't they have been teenagers since that was the age America was portrayed at the time of the revolution? **

…**...**

**The Rival North**

**Chapter 7: Marigold & Mallow **

**July 3rd, 1963, 12:00pm, Northern Urals**

Russia piloted the helicopter with skill, beside him, carefully strapped in, America watched as the snow covered peaks and jagged, gray mountains passed underneath them. Alfred could not deny there was something beautiful in the untamed landscape and the rocks worn by wind and time. There remote regions barely inhabited by man reminded him of those places, belonging to Matthew, where few feet had ever wandered, save for those of the North American brothers when they went away into the wild to remember what they were at the beginning and what they would be at the end.

Even in his reminiscing Alfred knew these places were entirely foreign to him. The rocks here did not speak to him. They didn't connect to him, the way Matthew's did, whispering softly that they supported him too, stretching beneath visible layers to create the backbone of the little corner of the earth they shared; A backbone that twisted and curved from the Pacific, knotted around the great lakes, and frayed outward to the Atlantic. No, this was not Laurentia, these northern reaches belonged to no part of him.

He turned away from their beauty.

Ivan's keen eyes picked out his safehouse before any other would. It was easy to miss, being built into the side of one of the many mountains. It had taken years to build and more money than he would care to confess to but he saw it as a necessary fortification. It was the perfect hiding place and essentially impenetrable. Only three people alive knew its location and Ivan was certain they would never reveal it. Of course, its remoteness made travel to and from Moscow simply impractical. He had taken a few weeks from work, against his boss's protest, so that he might have time to focus solely on America. He was certain that he could render Alfred docile enough to be moved to his Moscow apartment before he had to return to work.

Though, it wasn't really Alfred he was concerned about, it was the reaction of his allies. He needed to keep America hidden while he monitored their actions. Any rescue attempts would be swiftly dealt with.

Only once he had swayed America to his side, could he relax.

They landed easily on the Helipad situated just before the front, and only, entrance. Up this high the wind was fierce and biting cold. It whistled all around them as it twisted its way through the mountains. The way it wore down the rocks could not be seen by any eye, mortal or otherwise, but Russia could feel it in his aching bones as he exited the Helicopter and went to collect America from the passenger's side.

This was not cruelty, he repeated to himself again and again, this was necessity.

The safehouse was carved into the mountain. The only windows to be found where in the very first room that had been built on. The majority of the house was sheltered deep into the mountain itself. It had once been a vast, natural cavern that Russia had exploited and turned into his remote retreat. Very few people in his government even knew that this safehouse existed and Ivan liked it that way. This was the place he came when he needed to conduct business of utmost secrecy. The front room was comfortable, with large windows looking out on the mountains and a large fireplace. It was unfortunate, Ivan thought, that it was a room he rarely used.

The rest of the house, carved from stone and navigated through narrow passages, was not exactly a labyrinth, containing as it did only 5 rooms, but it would be difficult to navigate for one who had never been there and did not know the way. The thin stone hallways were dimly lit. All electricity came from one of two sources, the windmills situated above the safehouse or the generator nestled deep into the mountain.

As Ivan carried him through out the house, Alfred did his best to memorize every bend in the passageways, ever room they past and every turn they took.

It was undoubtedly, Alfred thought, a sign of Ivan's confidence in his hold on him that he did not blindfold him. He tried not to let himself dwell on whether or not that confidence was justified.

All that matter was that he catalog every detail. It would come in handy, he assured himself, it would.

**July 3rd, 1963, 8:00pm, Washington D.C**

Matthew could feel that something was wrong. He stood in the bathroom of his brother's D.C apartment and tried to tap into his brother's trademark charisma and buoyant confidence but every time he closed his eyes and searched for it all he found was the nagging worry in his own stomach.

He touched the strands of his freshly cut hair, shaking out a few loose pieces. He knew that it would grow back fast, still, he looked strange. His hair shortened, his curl slicked back and a cowlick flimsily constructed from an uneven cut and a little gel. It looked completely unbelievable to him, but then, he never understood how people kept mistaking him for Alfred in the first place. He hoped he could fool them now when he really needed to, and on the 4th of July of all days!

He'd gone out and bought a pair of glasses in a squarer frame. They weren't quite right...they weren't Texas...and frankly, Matthew felt a bit crippled without his own glasses. This whole thing was a catastrophe waiting to happen, he was sure of it. He needed to get in touch with the things that made Alfred who he was...he needed to think back and put himself in his brother's shoes.

Matthew laughed a little when he realized he already was, quite literally, in his brother's shoes.

He stared down at the shiny brown boots and wiggled his toes. They fit like a glove. Everything of Alfred's fit like a glove. The few inches Matthew had on his brother, thanks to his arctic expanse, were barely noticeable.

He inhaled deeply and enjoyed his Al's scent that still lingered. He ran his hands over the black fur lapels of his brother's favorite bomber jacket shrugged his shoulders up and down trying to relax.

He closed his eyes and let the memories come.

_He stood behind France...concealing himself behind the Frenchman's ornate blue coat..._

_'No.'_ He scolded himself._ 'No. That's not right. Canada was scared that day, little colony that he was, Canada was hiding behind France...but I'm not Canada, today, am I?'_

_He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, standing impatiently next to the great British Empire. He was tugging on the Empire's red coat, impatiently interrupting the proceedings. He was being scolded, swatted on the back of the head and, in a whisper, told not to embarrass his big brother in front of his rival. Today was a day of victory, not of defeat. Today his big brother was adding an additional member to their ever growing household, but...he didn't really care, did he? No. He was bored. He was thinking about wide open spaces for running, land for taming, buffalo to be swung. His attention was finally caught by a pair of violet eyes that were watching him worriedly, almost defiantly, from across the room. So, this was his new brother? He grinned and waved, startling the little French boy who glared and ducked back behind his big...former...big brother's coat. He lost interest quickly, preferring to play with a loose thread on his coat. It wasn't that he didn't really care, it was just that there was so much to do, so much to see, so much to examine. His entire body hummed with energy and he could feel his mind jumping from subject to subject with only a split seconds notice. He found it impossible to hold still. _

Canada fidgeted uncomfortably and absorbed this fact, as he struggled to emulate one of the attributes that was so key to America's personality and so different from his own. He was quiet, steady, his mind worked on one thought at a time and worked it over thoroughly before moving on. He was strong, yes, but cautious. He was pensive and sedate. His brother was, of course, his opposite in all these things.

His next memory rose up in a wave, spreading heat all through out his chest, as his heart clenched painfully and his stomach stirred with unbidden emotions. It was the early 1770s. America was on the verge of independence. Canada was not coming with him. He was doing what was best for his people, what they wanted, in clinging to the security of the crown and in retaining the British Heritage he had held since the fall of New France.

_He gripped the fur trim of his brother's coat, backing him against the wall of the log cabin, blue eyes burning bright, he pinned him with his hips and a heavy gaze. "Us and them, Matthew, us and them." He whispered. His heart pounding furiously in his chest, beating like the drums of war, sounding revolution and irrevocable change. There was nothing inside of him but righteousness. "He doesn't understand us." It was a growl. Unspoken was the plea, the demand, 'come with me, come with me, we'll be stronger together. We'll be the brightest beacon in the world.' instead he had pressed his lips roughly against his brother's own, run his hands along his broad chest, his eyes burning the message into him. 'We're the same land, we're connected at the core, you can't deny me.' _

_But his brother had denied him. _

Standing there, lost in thought, Canada could feel vicariously America's centuries old wound, the rage, and the indignation and finally, the confidence, the defiance, the will to stand alone. America had never been afraid to make his own decisions and to back them with nothing but his own determination for better or worse.

The first step in a successful impersonation, Matthew realized, was to be certain he could do it.

He took a deep breath, let his shoulders relax, and with a confident gait, he exited Alfred's bathroom and walked to his study to review the plan for tomorrow and the excuse for a leave of absence he would pitch to the President.

**July 3rd, 1963, 1:00pm, Northern Urals**

Alfred's cell and bedroom was simple but it was far from the spartan lodging he had expected. There were no windows, the walls were all of smooth, polished stone. The room was round with a few undulations in the wall that let Alfred to believe it had once been part of a cave structure. His ears kept popping and all he could do was wait for them to adjust to the height. A soft chill pervaded the entire safehouse and a single florescent bulb illuminated his room. It let off a small, constant, and distracting humming noise.

He was sitting on the small wooden bed that took up the majority of the room. He had a soft blanket and a pillow. Next to him was a small wooden chair and bookshelf with three shelves full of books but nothing he wanted to read. The only books written in English were textbooks for acquiring the Russian language. The others were all written in Russian and Alfred could not tell what their content was.

Alfred's eyes fell on the empty chair. For the moment Russia was gone. He had left promising to return with food so they could finally eat after their long journey. He had told America to relax, with his small knowing smile, as he had given him his midday injection.

Alfred was no fool. He'd figured out a few things on his trip here. Not once had he seen a Russian government official, not once had they used Russian military transport. Ivan was most certainly working covertly without the permission of his boss. If that was the case, as he was sure it was, then Ivan was not looking for war. He must know that he was working against a ticking clock. The minute Alfred's government realized he'd been taken there would be war. It was a dangerous game, he thought, and Ivan must be made to play it. It wasn't really that surprising though, after all they'd both been getting madder and madder for years with the secrecy, lies, nuclear stock piles, paranoia and propaganda.

What bothered Alfred the most was that he didn't know _how_ Russia was planning to stall his government's inevitable realization when he didn't show up for work. It was his birthday tomorrow! Or was it his birthday today? It was difficult to keep track of the time from half way around the world.

While Alfred pondered this, miles away in his study in D.C, Russia's gamble, his belief that Alfred's allies would be watching and covering up his tracks to stall a possible war, was preparing to pay off.

Alfred lay paralyzed on the bed staring up at the buzzing lightbulb. He knew, from the Russian's own confession, why he was here. All that remained the be seen was how Ivan intended to persuade him to abandon his ideals. Alfred willed himself to be prepared for torture and not to be put off his guard by Ivan's seeming docility.

Alfred had come to one conclusion, however, and that was that the only way to get around the injections was to play along. It would undoubtedly be a long and painful process but maybe if he could fake susceptibility to Ivan's methods, whatever they might be, then he could protect himself from them at least internally.

He just had to gain Ivan's trust, make him think he had won, and then stab him in the back. Alfred was most certainly not above deceit. The Russian was right about one thing, they both did tend to believe in the ends justifying the means._ 'Come on Hollywood,'_ Alfred thought. _'Don't let me down!' _

Outside Alfred's cell, Ivan was making his way down the hallway with a plate of food. He was being quite generous by feeding him so regularly when food was scarce but he knew the American neither knew nor appreciated this. He knew their time was limited and would have to find just the right balance between the carrot and the stick to find what would win America over. His gut instinct was to play into America's hero complex, to use sweet words and appeals to his vanity to win him over to the Soviet cause, but he knew he also needed to break his spirit before America's staunch pride would let him give in.

In the end, Ivan was not terribly worried. He was experienced in these matters. It was not the first time he had needed to bend another country to his will. While he and Alfred were evenly matched in strength and influence, Ivan had the advantage of age and wisdom won from suffering on his side.


End file.
